“I suggest that you keep the phone on, so you can read the caller ID, but not answer it. Collins’s boss might leave a voicemail.”
Gracie grimace, “That decision’s above my pay grade, Chuck. I have to turn this stuff over to CSU when they get here.” Then she smiled. “But since the phone is on…” She glanced at the screen. “…and the battery has a ninety percent charge, I see no reason to turn it off. I’ll keep an eye on it until CSU asks for it. If anyone calls, I’ll send you a text.”
“Thanks. Now can you open his wallet to his driver’s license for me?”
She did. I took a picture of it with my cellphone.
“Thanks, Gracie. I owe you one.”
“You owe me a lot more than one.”
###
As I walked back to my own parking lot, I called Vicky and told her what had happened, what my new theory was, and what evidence I needed to prove it.
Then I called Flamer. “This is Chuck McCrary.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, caller ID et cetera. Whattaya need?”
“I just sent you a photo of a driver license. I want everything, including who his nanny was when he was a kid, on Thomas Collins. And I want it tonight. Can do?”
“Does a bear eat berries?”
I called Sharon Farragut at the DNA lab and left a voicemail. I called Bettina Simpson in Houston with a heads up. I called Terry last. “Queens, I’ve got news.”
“Just ‘news?’ You’re supposed to say you’ve got good news and bad news, and ask which I want to hear first.”
“Okay. I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“The good news.”
“I survived.”
“That sounds ominous. What’s the bad news?”
“A sniper tried to kill me.”
“What happened?”
“I killed him first.” I recounted the events of the last twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes? It felt longer while it was happening, but the sunset still lingered, faintly golden on the western horizon. “The sniper was Tom Collins, my client’s personal assistant.”
“Oh, jeez. That can’t be good.”
“Flamer’s checking out Collins now. But to prove my theory, I gotta go to Houston tonight.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“A day or two.”
“Okay. Be careful, King.”
“Always, Queens. That’s why I’m still alive.”
Chapter 65
Bettina Simpson met my flight at George Bush Intercontinental Airport. I’d never kissed a cop in uniform, but Bettina settled the matter when she shook my hand. Her smile sent a warmer message.
She eyed my empty hands. “Did you check your bag?”
“Don’t have one. I had to hustle to make the last flight to Houston. And I had to leave my Glock and my computer in my car so I could get through security faster.”
“Don’t worry, big boy, I’ll protect you.”
“I’m counting on it. Could we stop by a Walmart on the way to your place so I can pick up a few things?”
“Sure. And I’ve taken two days’ vacation.”
“Was your lieutenant okay with you helping me?”
Bettina smirked. “It’s better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.”
“You didn’t tell him.”
“Her. Let’s go to my place. Have you eaten?”
“No, they didn’t have any first class seats.”
“I’ll fix you something when we get home.”
“Great. I have some research I need to do tonight if you’ll let me use your computer.”
Bettina stopped walking. “Of course you can use my computer. But this trip isn’t going to be all business, is it?”
“God, no. It’s always been one of my fantasies to kiss a cop in uniform.”
###
I managed a few hours sleep before Bettina and I left her apartment the next morning. Our first stop was the Harris County Institute of Forensic Science on Old Spanish Trail, where I got the two autopsy reports I needed. Bettina’s badge reduced the normal wait time. I was glad I’d asked her to help.
As Bettina drove to Turbot’s law office, I called Gracie to see if anyone had called Collins’s cellphone while she had it. No one had.
At Turbot’s law office Bettina’s badge again greased the skids. The managing partner was out, but the firm’s accountant agreed to see us without an appointment. The accountant’s office looked like a garage sale at a paper recycling center. It reminded me of my own CPA’s office. There must be something genetic about accountants that makes them stack paper piles on every horizontal surface.
A bead of sweat glistened on the accountant’s upper lip. He tugged at his tightly-buttoned white collar. He’d been hanging around lawyers too long because he tried to intimidate Bettina. He asked her about probable cause and wanted to see a warrant. Bettina countered with veiled threats about hired killings, obstruction of justice, and him being an accessory-after-the-fact to multiple murders.
The accountant bowed to the superior force, lowered his battle flag, and we had a worthwhile meeting. His information sent us on a voyage to the Harris County Property Appraiser’s District Office, followed by a visit to the County Clerk.
###
As Bettina and I sat down to lunch at her favorite barbecue joint, my cellphone rang. I read the caller ID and ignored it.
After lunch, I retrieved the voice mail. “This is Ike Simonetti. I missed the earlier flight. I spent the night in Anchorage. At least my cellphone is working again. I didn’t call you last night because of the time difference and I didn’t want to wake you. It’s just after eight in the morning here. The next flight to Seattle is 2:15 this afternoon, local time. I have a four-hour layover in Seattle and then take a red-eye that gets into Port City about noon tomorrow. I wanted to see what news you had. Call me when you can.” I saved the message.
Bettina and I met with a reporter at the Houston Tribune whom Bettina had called the evening before. It’s amazing the information sources reporters have, and what they’ll do for a story.
Then we went to the Harris County Clerk’s office and found a fascinating piece of information. Everything was falling into place like the last few pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Simonetti called again. I let it go to voicemail.
I caught a late afternoon flight back to Port City and headed straight to Terry’s apartment to hide out. At my apartment, I was still getting occasional visits from reporters about Sam Simonetti’s murder. I had dozed a little on the plane, but, God, did I need to unwind and relax. The biggest case of my young life and young career was coming to a head.
As I expected, Simonetti called again while Terry and I were eating in her kitchen. I let it go to voice mail, then retrieved the message. “This is Ike again. I’m laying over in Seattle and I wanted any news you have. What’s going on? Why haven’t you called me back, buddy? I’m the customer, remember? It’s not like you to be out of touch. Are you okay? Please call me as soon as you get this.”
I saved the message and turned to Terry. “He’ll call again about eleven before he boards the plane. I’ll turn the phone off.”
Terry agreed to let me get to bed early. Sleep is a weapon and I needed about nine hours’ worth.
I was asleep by eight o’clock.
Chapter 66
I eased in crosswise across two slots in the parking lot at Jerry’s Gym. I nosed the Avanti almost to the privet hedge border. The sun was still below the horizon, lightening the sky in the east.
I felt like a million bucks. Sleep will do that for you. Now I needed a good workout to get my blood flowing.
In the still dark sky, I noticed a few bats making a last meal sweep before they returned to their roost. Those pre-dawn shadows would save my life.
I’d covered ten paces toward the entrance to Jerry’s when I heard the gunshot and saw the muzzle flash in my peripheral vision. The bullet tore through my sweatshirt and raked my
ribs on the left side.
I’d locked my Glock 17 in the glove compartment instead of taking it in to Ken’s desk drawer. Murphy’s Law strikes again.
I rolled to my right, came up in a crouch, and ran toward my car. The shot had come from the north end of the privet hedge between the parking lot and the building. I scampered around the back of the Avanti and dived behind the passenger’s side as another bullet shattered the rear window. I fished in my sweat pants for the car key.
It ain’t easy to open a car door and a glove compartment from a crouch, even with the extra motivation of a hit man shooting at you. I got the passenger door open. As I opened the glove compartment, another bullet spanged off the pavement near my feet. That makes three.
I grabbed the Glock and dropped the holster on the floorboard. I belly-crawled under the four-foot privet hedge. My sweats were dark gray, the hedge was dark green, and the sun was still below the horizon. All that worked in my favor. I crouched on the opposite side of the hedge from the shooter. With any luck, he thought I was hiding on the passenger side of my car.
I scurried on my hands and knees up the east side of the hedge, rounded the corner, and crabbed along the north side toward the shooter. Another shot rang out. I heard the double crun-unch as the bullet passed through both sides of my car. Then a fifth shot shattered another window. Good. He thinks I’m still behind the Avanti.
Grandpa was not going to be thrilled.
The next two shots sounded so loud that I knew he was behind the hedge by the building’s north wall. That made seven shots. If he was firing an automatic, he could have ten bullets left, depending on the model. If he had a revolver, he was almost out.
Focused on the Avanti, he didn’t see me until I stood up from behind the hedge, taking a Weaver stance. “Freeze. Drop the gun and raise your hands.”
The shooter whirled my way and raised his pistol.
I started to put a double tap into his chest, but I hesitated. He was the last person I expected to see.
We fired at the same time.
I tried to squeeze off a second round, but I didn’t feel any recoil. I stared at my Glock, wondered why it didn’t fire. It must’ve weighed fifty pounds. Then it weighed nothing as my fingers lost feeling. I felt out of my body, watching from a height of fifteen or twenty feet as the barrel of the Glock pointed toward the ground. It fell in slow motion from my useless fingers. Then my arm began to fall in slow motion. My body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
The last thing I felt was privet leaves scratching my face as I pitched into the hedge.
Chapter 67
I hadn’t been in a hospital since I interviewed Harriet Chrysler at the medical center a month before. I recognized the smell before I opened my eyes. That meant I was alive.
Another, subtler smell lingered in the background, almost hidden by the hospital smell. A delicate but familiar fragrance. I took a deep breath and smiled.
“Hello, Terry.” I opened my eyes to find her by the bed.
“How’d you know I was here before you opened your eyes?” She leaned over and grasped my hand. It felt good.
“Professional secret.” Then I saw Snoop. “Good to see you.”
Snoop walked to the other side of the bed. “How’re you feeling, Chuck?”
“Like hell.” I tried to look down at my right shoulder but my head wouldn’t move that far. “Where did he hit me?”
“Right side of the chest, near the shoulder. Through and through. Missed the lung but nicked an artery. Ken and Terry found you quick, or we’d be drinking and telling funny stories about you at your wake right now.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Snoop. I know you like a good party. I’ll buy you a drink anyway.”
He squeezed my arm—the left one. “I’ll hold you to that.”
A smiling nurse entered. “Good, you’re awake. I’m Ginny Valle, your nurse. I monitor you from the nurses’ station and saw you were awake.” She pointed to a camera near the ceiling. “I called the doctor. She’ll be here soon. Do you need anything right now?”
“Nothing, thanks, nurse. How long have I been out?”
Nurse Valle glanced at the clock on the wall and did a mental calculation. “Fifty hours, more or less. And I predict you’ll be famished in twenty minutes. I’ll order a meal.” She glanced at my bandaged shoulder. “You’ll have to eat with your left hand for a while.”
“It’s not the first time.”
“I know. We got your medical records from the Army. I’m honored to treat a hero.”
“Please, don’t start that stuff. I was in the wrong place at the right time.”
Nurse Valle smiled and left me with Terry and Snoop.
Terry squeezed my hand. “After you left my place day before yesterday, I cleaned up the breakfast dishes and headed for the gym too. I was pulling into the parking lot when I heard shots and called it in. Ken ran out the door of the gym with a .45 in his hand. We split up and I found you first. I rode in the ambulance with you.”
“Thanks, Queens. And tell Ken too.”
“I just texted him. He’s coming over, and you can tell him yourself.”
I nodded and turned to Snoop. “Okay, catch me up.”
Snoop pulled a chair over. “First tell me who shot you.”
“You didn’t find his body at the gym?”
“Nope, and it wasn’t easy to find you, either. When Ken ran out, he saw your car with the windows shot out, but he didn’t see anyone in the lot. He and Terry searched the whole lot before she found you in the hedge. You were the only one there.”
“The shooter hid behind that same hedge at the northeast corner of the building. He was used to shooting a rifle so he didn’t realize a handgun’s range. He shot at me from too far away. That’s why he missed the first time. Saved my life.”
“Who was it?”
“Ike Simonetti.”
Chapter 68
Renate Crowell walked in with a flower arrangement. She placed it on the top of the cabinet with the others. “I’m glad you’re well enough to receive visitors.”
I waved my left hand, the one I could move. “It’s always nice to see a smiling face.”
“How much longer they gonna keep you?”
“I go home tomorrow.”
“That’s good news.” She pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down. “It’s time to go on the record.”
“No, but I’ll tell you the story, and you can use whatever you see fit. Just don’t give me as the source.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Don’t say ‘shoot.’ I’ve already been shot.”
“Oops. Sorry.” She pulled out her laptop. “Can I say ‘fire away’?”
“It hurts when I laugh.”
“What about client confidentiality, Chuck?”
A lot of the facts were already public record or would be soon. Crowell just needed someone to tie the public records together and give them context. “Simonetti tried to kill me at least four times. I have a strict rule about clients who try to kill me—they don’t get confidentiality. So I’ll tell you what happened.”
She poised her fingers over the laptop and I began.
I told her about Wallace’s engaging Turbot to set up her charitable foundation. About Turbot employing Lucas to murder Simonetti’s half-sisters. About Lucas’s connection with Hopper and Hopper setting the fire.
Then I told her about Snoop’s and me going to Cleveland and how I discovered Lucas’s and Turbot’s roles in hiring the arsonist.
“When I discovered that Turbot was Wallace’s attorney, I thought she was the one behind the Cleveland killings.”
“What was her motive?”
“I thought she was a black widow. Wallace’s first husband died of a heart attack, and she inherited a fortune from him. I thought she’d murdered him for his money, and I thought she murdered Sam to make Ike even richer. And both her first husband and Sam Simonetti died from heart attacks. Do the math. Then I figured she
planned to murder Ike and inherit four or five hundred million dollars.”
Crowell whistled. “Plenty of motive.”
“Yeah. Except none of it was true.”
“How so?”
“When Ike’s personal assistant Tom Collins tried to kill me using Ike Simonetti’s hunting rifle, I rethought my whole theory about the Cleveland murders. I ran a background check on Collins and discovered he was a bad guy.”
“How bad?”
“When he was in the Army in Iraq, he sold guns and ammo out the back door to Iraqi Islamist militias.”
“So he was crooked?”
“As a dog’s hind leg. That could be why Simonetti hired him originally—because he was already bent.”
Minutes passed as she tapped on her keyboard. “Okay, so you discovered Collins was a bad guy and he worked for Simonetti.”
“Right.”
“Go on.”
“I went to Houston to check out both Simonetti and Collins with the Houston cops and the Texas Rangers. Unofficially, the Rangers suspected both men of dirty dealings when Collins worked for Simonetti’s oil and gas operations. But neither the Houston cops nor the Rangers were able to prove anything.”
“If Wallace didn’t kill Sam Simonetti, then who did?”
“All in good time. Just go with me here.”
“Okay.”
“Now I knew Ike and Turbot were both dirty, but I had no connection between them other than Wallace. I got autopsy reports on Wallace’s first husband, Dr. Walter Wallace, and his father, Dr. Isaiah Wallace.”
“So?”
“They both died naturally of heart attacks. It was apparently an inherited genetic disposition to heart failure. Walter Wallace’s grandfather died at forty-three of heart failure. Isaiah Wallace died at forty-five and Walter died at forty-one. Lorraine Wallace didn’t kill her husband. It was coincidence.”
“So then you suspected Simonetti instead of Lorraine Wallace?”
“Right. But I hadn’t found the connection between Simonetti and Turbot. So I checked out Turbot. I discovered that he was flat broke—his whole law firm was.”
Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1) Page 22