Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2)

by Lance McMillian

  Scott’s heart is in the right place, but he is wrong about Cate. I would wager my life on it. The ludicrous thought that he may be staking us out right now crosses my mind, and I glance out of the window to take a look. But no one is lurking in the darkness. I return my attention to the beautiful woman across from me.

  We again hold hands on the stroll back to the car, which is parked parallel to the sidewalk. I set her in place on the passenger side. Behind the wheel, I give her another long kiss for good measure. In this moment right here, I feel happier than at any point since the murder of my family. I flash a goofy, love-soaked grin at Cate and prepare to take her home.

  The key gets caught when I try to turn on the ignition. I start to try again—

  “Get out!”

  “What?”

  I yell, “Get out!”

  Cate looks at me confused.

  “Now!”

  She exits the car. I grab a flashlight and the revolver stashed under my seat. Cate stands next to the car on the sidewalk. I motion for her to get away and scream, “Go! Down the street!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just do it!”

  She listens, at least. I check for oncoming cars, but the street is peaceful, free of traffic. I drop to the pavement with my flashlight and check underneath the Corvette. My heart pounds in ferocious beats. The object of interest isn’t hard to find if you’re looking for it.

  A car bomb. Cate and I should now be dead.

  43

  Blue lights, barricades, and the bomb squad dominate the street. The restaurant had to be evacuated. Surrounding homes, too. A catatonic Cate wears a blanket as if it were a life preserver. The revolver I retrieved from the car is stuffed into my pocket, and I’m ready to use to it. We finally called in the feds. Trevor Newman—Ella’s fiancé—talks to Scott across the street. I move toward Cate and drape my left arm around her in a near strangle of a grip. My right arm hovers in the vicinity of the gun.

  Only the bomb squad is near the car.

  Scott comes over. I introduce him to Cate. He offers, “I’m sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances.” She nods. He then gives us an update.

  “Bomb squad still hasn’t decided how they want to handle things. We’re probably looking at hours before the coast is clear. You don’t have to stay around. You should take Cate home.”

  “I want prints if at all possible.”

  “That’s the plan. No denotation if it can at all be avoided. Someone is going to have to take the car in, too.”

  “I want a receipt.”

  He allows himself a grim smile at the perceived joke. But I’m not kidding.

  Trevor and an FBI agent make their way to us. Trevor tells me the agent’s name but I immediately forget or maybe I never hear it at all. My brain is on tilt. The cold doesn’t help.

  The agent asks, “What made you think to search for a bomb in the first place?”

  “The key caught in the ignition when I tried to start the car.”

  “And that made you immediately jump to the conclusion about the bomb? The normal thing to do would’ve been to just try the key again. That’s what I would’ve done.”

  “Then you’d be dead.”

  “It’s suspicious, don’t you think?”

  Cate stiffens. I didn’t even realize she was listening. Out of nowhere, she launches into the FBI agent, “Drop it, dumbass! He picked me up at my place for dinner and was with me the entire time in the restaurant. He didn’t have the opportunity to go back outside and plant a bomb under his own car.”

  I squeeze her tighter and add, “What she said.”

  The FBI agent’s only response is to smirk. They must teach a class at Quantico called “Arrogance.” I regret bringing in the feds already. They’re only making things worse.

  Undeterred, FBI guy goes on, “The bomb could’ve been there before. Real strange that bomb not going off. Almost a miracle. I don’t believe in miracles.”

  I could shoot him on the spot and just might. Scott intervenes on my behalf, knowing that this situation could escalate quickly.

  “Lay off. We didn’t invite you to our party to waste time interrogating the wrong people. If you have a problem with that, get the hell out of here and go home. Chance restored the car himself, almost from the ground up. He has touched every inch of every part of that machine and knew something was wrong when the ignition didn’t turn the way it should. And that’s the only reason he’s alive right now. No more questions along those lines. Got it?”

  FBI guy still doesn’t look convinced. Trevor adds, “Bill, go see what’s happening with the bomb techs, okay?”

  The agent shrugs and takes a walk down the street. I guess his name is Bill.

  Trevor plays diplomat, “Sorry about that. Bill’s natural default is suspicion. Not much of a people person, either. I think his wife might have left him recently, too. Don’t worry anymore about him. You called us, but this is still your investigation. How do you guys want to handle things?”

  My heart has yet to return to a normal rhythm. I take a breath and blow the cold out of my mouth to calm my racing nerves. No dice. I still feel like a hopped-up junkie on some unnatural high.

  I answer, “At this point, the main thing we need is to tap into the superior resources of the federal government—starting with testing on the bomb and the car. Tomorrow, either arrest warrants go out or we double our current investigative efforts. Depends on whatever evidence we get from the car. We have a few wiretaps up now, but we would want to expand that greatly with the FBI’s help. There are now three parts to the investigation—Warren Jackson’s murder, a corruption case involving attempts to buy Jackson’s vote on an impending Supreme Court case, and tonight’s plot to blow my car into the stratosphere. I don’t know how the three are linked yet. But you can have the corruption case when the time comes. We’ll deal with everything else. That’s my thinking now.”

  Marlon arrives and pulls Scott off to the side. I watch them out of the corner of my eye. Trevor answers me, “Sounds like a plan.” I nod with only half-interest, instead studying Marlon and Scott’s body language for signs of what they might be talking about. I expect more bad news. It would fit the pattern.

  Trevor adds, “Ella wanted me to ask if you’re okay.”

  “No.”

  He appears as though he expected a different response, the kind of soft deceit we practice on a daily basis. The “I’m fine” lie. Normally, I would offer Trevor that kind of false assurance but not now. Someone just tried to blow me up, and I’m not in the mood for everyday social conventions. I’m rattled. Trevor leaves Cate and me alone.

  Marlon and Scott are still huddled off by themselves. Something else happened. I can read it in their faces. Maybe someone else’s car got blown up. My mind leaps to Minton. I ask Cate if I can make a call. She gives me permission. I step away but not too far. I keep my eyes on her the whole time.

  After a few minutes, I’m back at her side. Minton’s alive, thank God. Marlon and Scott head our way. They gesture for Trevor to rejoin us. I check the action down the street. The arm of the bomb robot is now under the car with a camera so that the bomb guys can figure out how best to proceed. Worse problems are afoot, but I still don’t like the thought of all these strangers pawing the Corvette, even if it can’t be helped. The night figures to be a long one.

  Scott introduces Marlon to Trevor and explains that Marlon will remain at the scene as our point person on the ground. Scott then informs Cate and me that we’re leaving. After he settles behind the wheel, he delivers the verdict.

  “Gene Davis has been murdered.”

  44

  The news does not go over well. I slam my fist into the back of the unoccupied passenger seat, the anger inside of me close to reaching Three Mile Island levels. Cate rubs my arm to no avail. Scott tells me what he learned from Marlon.

  “Gene was found dead in his car on a seldom-used side street near downtown. Shot in the head from insi
de the car, apparently from the passenger seat. Sophie and J.D. are on the way, probably already there by now. Atlanta homicide has been on the scene for a couple of hours. Marlon heard Gene’s name over the scanner on his way over here. That’s all I know at the moment.”

  “We should’ve pressed him harder this morning to spill his guts. Instead, he did something stupid and went and got himself killed.”

  “Don’t Monday-morning quarterback yourself. He wasn’t going to tell us anything else today. What do you want to do now?”

  “Get Cate to safety and then go see about Gene.”

  Cate looks at me with a questioning expression, and I tell Scott to go to Cate’s place so she can pack some things.

  She asks, “Where am I going?”

  “Somewhere where I know you will be safe.”

  The car ride over is quiet. I’m a mess mentally—alternating between a murderous urge to kill someone and wanting to curl up in the fetal position to cry a hurricane of tears. But the urge to kill is taking the lead. All my high-minded talk to Kenny about turning the other cheek is laughably quaint in the heat of the moment. Other words from Jesus are on my mind at the moment: “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s; and to God the things that are God’s.” As special attorney general, I am Caesar—one of the state’s most powerful government officials with basically no oversight. And Caesar wants blood.

  Scott pulls up to the condo. Cate and I exit.

  I tell him, “Keep an eye out. We’ll be right back.”

  I scan the space between the car and her building with the attentive intensity of a Secret Service agent. My right hand firmly encircles the butt of the revolver in my pocket. We reach the entrance to the building without incident and ride up the elevator. Outside her door, I go into the condo first to check things out with the gun now out in the open. The coast is clear. I come back and latch the door.

  Cate says, “The way you’re acting is making me more afraid.”

  “Fear can be healthy when it helps you to survive. Go pack.”

  She stands there for a second but retreats to her bedroom. I sit on a chair, put the gun on the coffee table, and bury my face in my hands. After an indeterminate length of time where I drift off to parts unknown, Cate is kneeling beside me with her arms wrapped around my body.

  “Chance, it’s okay. We’re alive.”

  My head shakes, refusing her words of comfort. Things are not even close to being okay. What happened tonight is not just about Cate and me. The trauma of Amber and Cale’s murders is also breathing fire down my neck. I explain.

  “You don’t understand. The last three years I’ve been tortured by the thought that my wife and son were murdered on my account. Killed because of me! I don’t know that for sure. A possibility exists, however small, that they were victims of some random killer for some random reason. I might be in the clear. But tonight there’s no doubt. You almost died for one reason and one reason only—because you were with the wrong man at the wrong time. Everyone that gets near me gets hurt. It’s a curse.”

  She breaks out in painful sobs. The composure she has displayed up to this point gives way to the enormous weight of the car bomb that failed to explode. Part of me wants to comfort her but not the larger part. My focus is on breaking the curse. Mr. Smith escaped justice for killing Amber and Cale. I couldn’t do anything about that. The situation tonight is different. I have a badge, a gun, and a target.

  Cate grabs my face and kisses my unresponsive lips, her tears baptizing me with even greater righteous furor. She turns to pleading.

  “Why do this to yourself? You’re not the villain in this story. The right man saved my life tonight with his quick thinking.”

  “We have to go. The longer we stay here, the more you are at risk.”

  A pitiful sadness consumes her, and she stands up on shaky legs. I pick up her suitcase, and we leave.

  ***

  The gates to the Governor’s Mansion open up to me for the second time in as many nights. A state patrol officer leads Cate and me through the front door of the Mansion, telling us to climb the stairs to the residential area. The Governor is waiting.

  At the top of the staircase, Minton and Susan Benson emerge from a bedroom on the far end of the hall—Minton clad in pajamas, Benson in a nightgown. I’m startled but shouldn’t be. I don’t know what I expected.

  Cate whispers, “Why is Justice Benson here?”

  “They’re a couple. It’s a secret. Keep it to yourself.”

  I glance at Cate and see a face that is fresh out of surprises. I squeeze her hand in a gesture of solidarity but limpness is the only response. The knowledge that the stress of the evening may cause me to lose her takes root, supplying even greater motivation to take down those who set us on this path.

  Susan Benson gently wraps an arm around Cate and guides her to one of the bedrooms. Minton grapples me in a bear hug.

  “Thank God you’re all right, son.”

  For a second, the embrace feels like my father’s arms around me once again, and I long to give myself over to the feeling of security that Minton’s touch provides. I gather every bit of strength at my disposal to avoid breaking down then and there. Too much remains in front of me yet to do.

  I say in a quiet voice, “Keep her safe, please.”

  “You have my word on that one. I didn’t know that the two of you were a thing.”

  “We all have our secrets.”

  “Ain’t that the God’s honest truth?”

  The question is rhetorical. We meditate in silence for a few moments. I once dreamed of living in this house with Daddy as governor. Back then, the dating possibilities of being able to sneak girls into the Governor’s Mansion felt tantalizing. But tonight is the first time I’ve ever brought a woman here under the cover of darkness. The reality and the dream diverge so violently that I hunger to live in the land of make believe once again. But the kid in me died long ago.

  I ask, “Did you hear about Gene?”

  “Yeah. What the hell is going on? I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence that Gene was murdered the same night someone tried to blow you up.”

  “Damn unlikely.”

  “But why?”

  “Gene promised me this morning to provide irrefutable proof of who killed the Chief Justice in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”

  “Immunity from prosecution? What the hell did he do?”

  “Tried to bribe Jackson to side with Hank Dalton in that tort lawsuit involving the school bus.”

  Minton exhales and mumbles, “And Jesus wept.” He then paces around in a circle, leaving a trail of rising disgust in his wake. I give him a moment but remain fidgety to hit the streets and get back to work.

  He says, “What in the blasted hell? I should’ve fired that snake the second he started playing footsie with Tommy Dalton. I would’ve if I was ten years younger. I’m too old for this nonsense. Now I’m going to have to deal with the blowback. I guess that means the Daltons—”

  I cut him off with a shake of the head—the less he knows, the better. I’ve probably told him too much as it is.

  He sighs, “All right, play it cool. But I’m telling you right now, I’m appointing you attorney general once Tommy Dalton goes down and then you can replace me as governor in two years. I’ll get the party behind you. And at your age, you could even end up being president.”

  “No—”

  “Don’t want to hear it. I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll tell your mother if I have to.”

  ***

  I step into one of the Mansion’s bedrooms to see Cate before leaving. Susan Benson pats my arm as she exits the room. She says, “I’m glad you’re okay, Chance.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cate sits on the foot of an antique, museum-quality bed. The tiredness leaks in steady drips from her body. I walk to her and pull her up for a hug, burying my face into her long hair—the first instance since turning the key in the Corvette’s ignition that I�
�ve let my guard down with her.

  She implores, “Stay with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

  The offer is damn tempting, and no one would blame me if I sat the next few days out. But I would hate myself.

  “Not an option. I have to find out who’s behind this.”

  “Someone tried to kill you. You’re the one still in danger. You should be staying here, not me. Besides, you’re a lawyer, not a cop. Let your team—the real police—do their job. I want you here with me.”

  I kiss her softly. Cate tries to turn it into something more passionate, violent even. She attempts to push me back on the bed, but I brace myself against the aggressive onslaught. Our mouths part, and she beats her hands against my chest in frustration. I draw her in, and she collapses in my arms with a jagged sob.

  “I have to go.”

  “Don’t leave me! Please!”

  “I have to go.”

  Cate doesn’t respond. The hot emotion trickles out of her, and she goes comatose instead. Guilt at abandoning her in this condition bubbles within me but not enough to change course. I lay her down on the bed and kiss her cheek. I take a last look back at her as I reach the door and wince at her helpless frame curled tight for some semblance of comfort—the comfort I refuse to give her. I scurry away and bound down the stairs of the Mansion with a sprinter’s speed, feeling like a real bastard every step of the way.

  45

  Scott stands under the portico outside the front door of the Mansion when I run out. We walk in brisk unison to his car. He asks, “Jerry Dalton?”

  “Hell yes, Jerry Dalton.”

  After a few more steps, I snap, “You still think Cate is the murderer? She was a fraction of a second from being blown up with me.”

  The downcast look on his face gives me the answer, and I continue the assault, “Is that an apology?”

  He shakes his head and responds, “No, you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

  I stop to inspect him closer and bark, “What?”