Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2)

by Lance McMillian

  “You’ll give me Jackson’s murderer. What the hell does that mean? Because I’m not just going to take your word for it.”

  “I know that. I’m talking about something more. Irrefutable proof.”

  “You’ll give me irrefutable proof of the identity of Warren Jackson’s killer in exchange for complete immunity from state prosecution for all your various crimes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re not going to confess to the murder, are you? Because that doesn’t count.”

  “No. I didn’t do it.”

  “And you’ll be a cooperative witness in court when Barbara needs you?”

  “Witness against who?”

  “Anyone we see fit.”

  He chews on that one for a bit, which I find curious. I realize I’m sitting near the front of my seat now, the excitement of the moment pushing me forward. Everyone on my side of the table remains quiet. The ball is in Gene’s court.

  “Okay, I get complete immunity for irrefutable proof of who killed Jackson and testifying as you need me. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Gene fails to realize that I can turn the bribery evidence over to Ella’s fiancé, Trevor Newman, a U.S. Attorney who specializes in public corruption cases. Immunity from state prosecution doesn’t apply to the feds, and Trevor can go after Gene with full vigor. That way, I catch my murderer, and Gene receives his just due. But he doesn’t need to know that at present.

  The deal consummated, we look at each other for a few seconds. Tired of the suspense, I say, “Well? We’re waiting.”

  With fresh life breathed into him, he asserts, “I’m not going to tell you today. I don’t trust you, and I’m going to have my lawyer draw up the agreement.”

  No fighting that logic. A new fortitude replaces the earlier weakness. He’s dug in now, and I can’t really blame him. He’d be a fool to give up his leverage before getting his lawyer on board. I try another tactic.

  “Give me something to wet my beak. What dirt did you have on Jackson?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Did the dirt on Jackson have something to do with his murder?”

  “All good things to those who wait.”

  “Gene, cooperation is your friend.”

  “You’ll wait. You don’t have a choice.”

  “Not true. Time stops for no one. We’re close to solving this thing on our own. If we do, deal’s off.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  40

  Outside the State Capitol, Scott asks Barbara and me, “Do you think he really has the goods?”

  I shrug and answer, “Irrefutable proof strikes me as a high bar to clear. What does that even mean?”

  Barbara says, “A recorded confession maybe.”

  “That’s a good thought. But who would admit that to someone like Gene? I fear he’s up to something. Time will tell. You were outstanding in there, by the way.”

  She laughs before responding, “I used to resent the ‘Dragon Lady’ thing but realized that it could be put to good use in plea negotiations. I worked hard to perfect my bitch face. I may be enjoying the persona a little too much. Men don’t have to worry about such things, do you?”

  Scott answers, “Chance’s face always scared defendants naturally.”

  I respond, “You’re just jealous that I have hair.”

  ***

  We make our way back to the squad room, cautiously optimistic that Gene will come through on his end of the deal. Sophie and J.D. are out executing the search warrant on Gary Winnett, but I still have little faith in that endeavor, necessary as it is. Marlon pulls Scott and me aside when we arrive.

  “Before you went over to meet Davis this morning, he called Tommy Dalton again and left another long message, this time about the Supreme Court appointment. Davis had a candidate for the position that he wanted to run by Dalton.”

  I ask, “Who?”

  “Cate Slattery.”

  My heart sinks. It’s torture enough that the Governor brought Cate up to me last night and that Gene discussed a Supreme Court seat with her before Warren Jackson even died. Now Cate’s name is turning up on wiretaps. Not knowing how to react, I just stand there like an idiot. Scott jumps in and says, “Let’s hear what you got, Marlon.”

  We congregate around a laptop that he lays upon his desk. Gene’s aggrieved voice starts speaking.

  “Damnit, Tommy. Stop ignoring my messages, you bastard. We need to talk. Do you still care about the Supreme Court appointment or not? I finally got the Governor’s ear. Is Cate Slattery still okay with you? I’ve talked to her. I think she serves our purposes. The Governor appointed her to the Court of Appeals. He’s a big fan and won’t need much persuading, but I’d like some direction on your end. Call me.”

  I stare a hole into the computer, as if the device itself were the source of my heartburn. Marlon studies me. He’s too good a cop not to notice that something is amiss. He asks, “Mean anything?”

  I answer, “Not sure.”

  “Know her?”

  My face is a mask of austere neutrality. Do I “know” her? Not biblically. Not yet. I tell the truth.

  “We’ve met.”

  Marlon considers the answer but lets the matter drop before going back to his desk. Scott and I huddle close in a corner. My best friend stares at me with great meaning and says, “Her name keeps coming up.”

  I don’t answer him.

  He continues, “I think I need to question her.”

  “No.”

  “You’re too close to the situation.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Hear me out, okay?”

  I throw him a look intended to convey a lack of interest in hearing him out. He somehow reads permission in my eyes and begins.

  “Her husband tosses her aside for another woman. No kids and suddenly no husband. A lot of anger. Her career is the thing now. Up pops Gene Davis to plant a seed in her mind about being on the Supreme Court. Is she interested? Sure. Who wouldn’t be? Okay, then. What is she willing to do to make it happen? It fits the facts, Chance. She was at the murder scene, talked to Gene enough to make him think she’s on the side of the Daltons, and stands on the brink of taking Jackson’s place on the court. That’s a lot of coincidences. I know you have feelings for her but take the blinders off.”

  Scott makes Cate sound like Adam Lumpkin—hellbent on her career to the exclusion of anything else. He’s misreading the situation.

  “You think Cate is the killer? That Gene texted her at the party and said, ‘Hey, the Chief Justice is now alone in his chambers. Go up and shoot him if you want to be on the Supreme Court.’ Do you know how absurd that sounds?”

  “I haven’t worked that part out yet, and I’m not saying she is actually involved. But she needs to be part of the discussion. That’s all. You have to see that.”

  Wrong. I leap into cross-examination mode.

  “How do we even know that she was on the fifth floor around the time of the murder?”

  “She told you.”

  “How did we learn about the possible link between the case against Hank Dalton’s company and Warren Jackson’s murder?”

  “She told you.”

  “If the murder was part of some coordinated plan to get Cate on the court to do the bidding of the Daltons, then why does Gene have to run her name by Tommy this morning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The defense rests.”

  The two of us stand eyeball to eyeball and catch our breath. From across the room, I feel Marlon and Taylor pretending to ignore us.

  Scott says, “Can I ask you a question now?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You started going out with her after you were appointed Special Attorney General, right?”

  “So?”

  “How did the two of you get together?”

  “Our mothers set us up on a blind date—before it was announced that I would be leading the investigation.”

>   At least I believe it was before. I delve back to remember. Ben asked me over to lunch with Cate and her mother a few hours prior to the press conference with the Governor. Only a few people knew about the appointment at that point.

  But was Gene one of them? And did he tell Cate? I smother the thought to death.

  Scott continues, “I know you’re upset with me. But put yourself in my shoes. I’m trying to protect your blind side.”

  “Don’t.”

  He looks at me as if I should know better. And probably I should. But if Cate is in bed with Gene and the Daltons, then everything I perceive about humanity is so egregiously wrong that I might as well stop living.

  41

  I take a walk through the Old Fourth Ward. Senator Clement Parsons is scheduled to call me at any moment for a follow-up to our earlier chat. I’m not optimistic that he will actually follow through, but I’ll keep the line open to give him the chance.

  The cold has driven most people off the street. The homeless that populate the area in warmer times are off wherever it is the homeless go when the weather turns against them. I reflect on the impossibility of their plight and feel impotent to do any good in a world filled with so much wrong. That foreboding of futility is one of the reasons I ceased being a prosecutor. Too much death. No matter how good I was in the courtroom, I was always a step too late to thwart the blood tide of violence that put us in the courtroom in the first place.

  The hangover from the conversation with Scott haunts me in the moment—my insides teetering on the brink of physical sickness. Not Cate.

  My cell rings. I check the number and see the (202) area code. Washington, D.C.

  “Hello?”

  “Chance Meridian?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please hold for the Senator.”

  I wait for the Senator for a minute or two. His interest in stringing me out a second time is beyond childish and decidedly unpresidential. Or maybe not. My favorite presidents all served before I was born—perhaps because they were all myths. The real thing can’t escape the stain of humanity.

  The line goes live, and Parsons snaps, “Make it quick, Meridian. You’re not recording this are you?”

  Of course I’m recording it. An app on my phone will catch every word. But Georgia law allows me to keep that little detail to myself.

  “I’m walking down Auburn Avenue coming up to the King Center. Not a recording device in sight.”

  “All right,” he responds, the gruffness in his voice again indicating his unfriendliness. He takes me at my word that I cannot record him since I am outside. I shake my head at the stupidity. The country is in the best of hands. I get to it.

  “Senator, before when we talked, you refused to tell me anything that you and Warren Jackson discussed during the twenty minutes the two of you were together on the night of the murder, only that he seemed distracted. Remember?”

  “I’m not senile.”

  “Quite right. I’m afraid that developments in the investigation are not going to allow me to accept that answer. I need more from you.”

  “What developments?”

  “Better for your sake not to know.”

  “Don’t play like some clever detective with me.”

  “I’m not a detective and probably not clever, but I do need to know what was on Warren Jackson’s mind when you were with him.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  What happened to not being senile? I shake my head. A deep weariness with this whole affair penetrates my bones. Last night with Cate was a late one, and having to drive back home after dropping her off at her condo meant that I didn’t get enough sleep. Summoning up whatever reserves I can muster, I tell myself that the Senator was obviously in a bad mood before getting on this call. No need to make it personal. Play nice.

  “You can’t recall anything?”

  “Nothing. Is that it?”

  “Did you talk about Hank Dalton?”

  Dead silence on his end. The question is a total shot in the dark, but the Senator’s reticence persuades me that I just drew blood.

  “I have no recollection of that.”

  Shedding the bully role, Parsons opts instead for a lawyerly pose. But the “no recollection” gambit won’t get him far. I’ve dealt with witness amnesia my whole career.

  “Can you rule it out?”

  That’s the magic question to deal with someone who purports not to recall something. More silence follows as the Senator plots his next move.

  “How can I rule it out if I don’t remember?”

  “So you might have talked about Hank Dalton with Warren Jackson on the night that Jackson was killed?”

  “I don’t remember what we talked about.”

  “But it’s possible?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “Did you and Jackson talk about kiddie porn?”

  “What the hell? Of course not!”

  “So anything’s not possible.”

  “Listen here—”

  “Senator, I’m not trying to be a smartass. But I need to know if the name ‘Hank Dalton’ came up in your meeting.”

  “Maybe. Look, I need to go—”

  “Hank Dalton has donated to your campaigns, correct?”

  Money is the mother’s milk in politics. I have no idea if Dalton contributed to Parsons or not, but a man like Hank Dalton throws around a lot of cash. The Senator stays on the line, which is a victory in itself.

  “I don’t like your tone. Don’t make me go over your head to Governor McReynolds.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Let’s call it a good piece of advice.”

  “Minton was my dad’s best friend and has known me since the day I was born. He’s like a second father to me. If I were you, I wouldn’t count on him taking your side over mine.”

  “I find you very tiresome.”

  “What did Warren Jackson tell you about Hank Dalton that night?”

  The guess is that Jackson unburdened himself to Parsons about what the Daltons told him earlier that evening. The other guess is that the Senator wants to hold that information close and use it as a bludgeon to bleed more campaign cash out of Hank Dalton’s hands.

  “I’m hanging up now—”

  The chance of this phone conversation going smoothly sat somewhere between slim to none. None won. I stand on the street viewing Dr. King’s grave maybe fifty yards away, searching for the better angels within me as I wrestle with antagonism toward the man on the other end of this call.

  “Senator, wait!”

  He growls back at me with feral ferocity, “What?”

  “I did record this call.”

  42

  After Senator Parsons hangs up on me, I continue down Auburn Avenue in a foul mood before sliding into historic Ebenezer Baptist Church. I find a pew. No one else is around, and I’m thankful to have the place to myself.

  When I was a kid, Daddy brought me here as a teaching moment. I sat in amazement that Dr. King preached so many sermons from the pulpit right in front of me. The history tingled on my skin. I read most of his sermons when I got older, Dr. King’s preaching of the gospel of Jesus Christ steadying my inconsistent faith. The message still resonates.

  The problem, as ever, remains me. Life was easier living like a recluse in the woods. The beast doesn’t do well back in civilization. My no-lying policy is already on life support, and dealing with the likes of the Senator Parsons, Gene Davis, and the Dalton clan is giving me dark thoughts.

  I bow my head in the holy temple and pray that God will save me from myself. After saying the final “Amen,” I get back to work.

  ***

  Sophie and J.D. return to the squad room and provide an update on the search of the Winnett residence. They found the gun in a drawer of a nightstand adjacent to the marital bed. Ballistics now has it and is performing the usual tests. I’m not hopeful. After yesterday’s conversation, Gary Winnett would have to be the world’s biggest idiot to
keep the gun around if it were the murder weapon. He isn’t that dumb.

  Except for the Daltons, we’ve now had two turns with all the suspects. I suppose duty requires me to likewise circle back to the brothers, but my heart has little interest in a sure waste of time. Gene’s promise to give us the killer remains the best hope at the moment. And one should never pin his hopes on Gene Davis.

  Scott’s irksome doubts notwithstanding, Cate and I plan a dinner date. Her smiling face is a needed cleansing from the patina of slime accreting on my skin since my return to the world of crime. But’s that a few hours away.

  Dead tired and with nothing to do until the evening, I go home and take a nap.

  ***

  We ride together in the Corvette to a secluded restaurant nestled on a Midtown Atlanta side street. Trees line the sidewalks, and we actually hold hands in the darkness on our walk to the restaurant. I hold the door for her and watch her go in. Cate’s jeans fit her well.

  The place is small and intimate with a minimum of light to heighten the atmosphere—a cozy space suitable only for couples in the mood to touch one another. Amber and I used to frequent such spots before Cale was born. After the birth, changing diapers became the new normal, and the carefree days of eating out whenever we wanted drifted into the past. I remember going on those dates with Amber but little else—no moments, no images in my mind. The other memories have faded away.

  After we order, I ask, “How did our mothers end up setting us up in the first place?”

  A little exploration on this detail does no harm. I want some ammunition should Scott broach the topic with me again.

  “My mother took me to Ben’s church and told me that the two of you were brothers. I admitted that I might be interested in meeting you. She and your mom worked out the rest. I later investigated and learned that your mom didn’t tell you it was a blind date because you wouldn’t have come had you known. Ben called only to invite you to lunch. He didn’t know it was a blind date, either.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  We talk, laugh, and enjoy good food. The stress of the day floats off me in the vibrancy of her company. We even steal kisses across the table a few times—the heat from the candlelight warming our faces as we bend toward each other.