Strand of Deception

by Robin Caroll

  “Maddie. Maddie Baxter.”

  Nick stood straight and put his hand on Rafe’s shoulder. He squeezed. Hard.

  “Have you called Ms. Baxter and made any threats?” Timmons gripped his pen so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  Sloan slid down in the chair, stretching out his legs to the side of the table. “I ain’t threatened nobody.”

  “Did you call Ms. Baxter?”

  Sloan shrugged.

  The muscles in Rafe’s shoulders bunched. Nick squeezed harder. “We’ll get the phone records. Mr. Sloan, where were you last night?”

  Sloan’s eyes widened. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Last night?”

  Rafe sat up ramrod straight. “Where. Were. You. Last. Night? And don’t even think about lying to me.” His jaw muscles flexed and popped.

  “I was out.”

  “Out where?” Timmons leaned forward, his own hand on Rafe’s forearm.

  “Maybe I should get a lawyer afore I say anything else.”

  Rafe slammed the side of his fist into the table. He shot to his feet, the metal chair shooting out behind him before clattering to the cracked floor.

  Nick and Timmons each held one of Rafe’s arms.

  “Maybe you should answer the question before you get pelted.” It took everything Nick had not to just let Rafe have at Sloan.

  But he was sworn to do his job without prejudice.

  Never before had he thought he wouldn’t be able to do just that.

  “You didn’t think anyone saw you when you were at her house, did you?”

  Rafe stopped straining against them. Nick couldn’t believe Timmons had taken the lead in the questioning. And with a falsehood too. Well, not exactly. Not yet anyway.

  “You thought you were safe when you slipped into her backyard and came up the stairs. You didn’t consider someone next door to her was on their second-story balcony having a drink and a smoke after a hard day on the golf course, did you?”

  Oh, Timmons was a lot better than Nick gave him credit for. Not a lie, but just spinning a hypothetical scenario.

  Sloan’s eyes grew wider and wider.

  “You never saw anyone circle around as you broke the glass on the mudroom door.” Timmons leaned across the table, right in Sloan’s face. “Did you consider that maybe whoever called the cops wasn’t Ms. Baxter? Do you realize that she’s a Tennessee Bureau of Investigation officer who carries a badge and a gun? A gun that she was holding just in the hallway when you were stepping through the broken glass. A gun that she knows how to use was pointed at the doorway.”

  Sloan licked his cracked lips. “I just wanted to scare her. Let her know how wrong she was.” He uncrossed his arms and rested them on the table. “It’s my sister Hubble hurt. I have to protect her.”

  Rafe straightened the chair and sat back down. He nodded to Nick and Timmons. “Oh, I understand how hard it is to be a good brother.”

  “That’s all I was trying to do.”

  “That woman you tried to scare last night? Maddie Baxter?”

  Sloan nodded.

  Rafe leaned in close, almost nose-to-nose with Sloan. “That’s my little sister.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I never expected to be anybody important.”

  Elvis Presley

  Thursdays shouldn’t be such a disappointment. They should be filled with planning for the upcoming weekend and expectations. Not . . . nothingness. Especially when he had a breakfast date with Maddie planned.

  Yesterday had been productive. They’d gotten a full confession from Conrad Sloan, charged him, and the prosecution had him in holding pending the judge’s sentencing. Rafe had returned to Arkansas this morning. Maddie had helped Nick and Peter fill out the necessary report form that he’d taken to the district attorney, who’d been only too happy to sign the request. Eva had finished preparing the sample for travel and a TBI officer had escorted the sample and request to the Nashville office first thing this morning.

  But today? Today, Nick was in a strange mood that he couldn’t explain.

  “Sir?” Agent Martin stood in the doorway.

  “Yes?” Maybe he’d get some good news and break his macabre mood.

  “We got the phone records from the senator’s home. There was a call to Mr. Whitlow’s number at 8:20 a.m. that lasted until 9:04 a.m. last Thursday, not Friday.”

  Nick nodded. “Thank you.” So if the senator wasn’t talking to Mr. Whitlow on Friday, who was he talking to? And why weren’t there any phone records at all during that time? It was time the senator gave some answers.

  He motioned for Timmons to join him as he strode to the car. The bitter cold stung as he started the engine. The storms might have passed, but they left a mean cold front in their wake.

  “Where are we headed, Boss?” Timmons blew on his hands.

  “To see Senator Ford.” Nick eased out of the parking lot and past the gate that bordered the entire building. “Phone records came back. He was, in fact, talking with Mr. Whitlow. Last Thursday, not Friday.”

  “So he still has no alibi.”

  “Nope, and I’m getting tired of the runaround. This man is calling the mayor daily and the governor every other day, demanding justice be served. He’s going on the news and all but throwing whoever we arrest out for the death penalty. No way will there ever be an unbiased jury pool in the whole state. But he flat out lied to us about his alibi for the time of his daughter’s murder.” Nick turned onto the main highway. “I want the truth and I want it now.”

  “Who left your box of cereal open to get stale?”

  “What? I don’t eat cereal. What are you talking about?” Had Timmons been working too hard?

  “Well, something’s put you in a foul mood this morning.”

  Nick started to deny it, then stopped. “I know. I don’t know what’s going on with me. It’s like I got to work and this irritation just settled over me.”

  “You’re not at peace.”

  Really? “Of course not. We haven’t a solid lead on the case at this point, we have to wait until tomorrow at the earliest for this familial DNA thing, we seem to be unable to verify a single alibi—”

  “Man, have you stopped and prayed about this stress? You aren’t going to make it if you don’t let go and let God.”

  Pray about stress? Seriously? “Uh, thanks, but no.”

  Timmons gave him a funny look. “I know you believe in God. You might not be on the best of terms with Him at the moment, but you believe in Him.”

  “I don’t know what I believe.” That wasn’t exactly true. At one time, he believed in a sovereign God who loved His children and had plans of good things for them. He didn’t plan to kill young men on foreign soil fighting for their country. He didn’t plan to rip families to shreds with grief, pain, and guilt. No loving God could allow that. Would allow that.

  “You’ll figure it out, Boss. I’ll be praying for you.” Timmons shifted to stare out the passenger’s window.

  Yeah, pray for him. That’d worked out so swimmingly in the past.

  But then there was Maddie, who wore her faith on her sleeve.

  Timmons remained silent the rest of the drive and until they parked in the senator’s driveway. “Did you call and let him know we were on our way?”

  “Nope.” Nick shut the car door. “Thought the element of surprise would be fun.” He hurried up the stairs.

  “Oh, yeah . . . a real ball.” Timmons stepped beside him.

  “Yes? Is there news?” The senator opened the door to them, showing them into the same, tired formal living room. This time, Mrs. Ford wasn’t sitting like an exhibit on display.

  “Is Mrs. Ford feeling well?” Nick asked as he sat on the sofa. No way was he going to sit on that uncomfortable chair aga
in if he could help it.

  “She’s been busy planning the memorial service for Gina. Her funeral will be tomorrow afternoon at two. Memphis Memorial Gardens. Her wake begins this evening, so understandably, Mrs. Ford needs her rest.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be exhausting for Mrs. Ford.”

  “It has been. I’ll let her know you asked after her.” He sat in the hard chair. “Now, how may I help you today?”

  Nick inched to the edge of the couch. “Sir, we’ve tried every way we can to verify your alibi and we can’t.”

  The senator’s face twisted. “I’ve told you several times now, I was speaking with an international investor, Mr. Whitlow. I don’t know why you can’t call and verify that, and I haven’t any idea why the call isn’t showing up on my phone records.”

  “Sir, you did talk to Mr. Whitlow from a little after eight until about nine o’clock—”

  “See! Then why are you asking me—?”

  “On Thursday, sir. Not Friday.”

  He froze.

  “And before you ask, yes, sir, we’re sure. The phone records verify that.” Nick waited for that to sink in. “Is it possible you just got your days mixed up?”

  “Well, obviously.”

  “Then whatever you were doing on what you thought was Thursday could possibly be what you were doing on Friday.” That should have made logical sense and eased Ford’s mind a bit, but the senator’s facial muscles tightened by the minute.

  “Senator, are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” Only he didn’t look fine. He looked like a man about to pass out.

  “Sir, can you think of what you could have been doing on Friday morning?” Timmons asked.

  Ford got up and crossed the room. He closed the French doors to the room, then returned to his seat. “What I’m about to tell you is completely confidential, correct?”

  What was the man up to now? “As much as it can be, sir.”

  “Because if this got out . . . it could destroy me.”

  “Sir, we don’t want to destroy you. We just need to verify your alibi.”

  “I was on the phone, but not with Mr. Whitlow.”

  Well, no kidding. Hadn’t Nick just told the senator this?

  “I was on the phone, but not my cell or the one here at the house.”

  Oh, this was gonna be rich.

  “I have an untraceable phone.” Ford shot to his feet again, this time going to his study. He used a key from the key ring in his pocket to open a drawer. He pulled out a pay-in-advance disposable cell phone. “This phone. I was on this phone.”

  Nick took the phone and inspected it. No SIM card. No account. Not traceable. “Sir, we can’t pull records on this to verify when you were on the phone or to whom.”

  “I know. That’s why I have the phone.”

  Nick handed the phone back. “Then why are you telling us this?”

  “Because I was on the phone with a certain . . . special friend.”

  Ahh. A girlfriend.

  “You see, my wife doesn’t come down until nine or later, so I call my friend every other day around eight. That gives me plenty of time to talk before I walk the treadmill with Gina.”

  “I see.” No wonder he’d looked like he was going to pass out. “Sir, we still can’t trace that phone. We’re going to need your friend’s name and number so we can verify your alibi.”

  “Why would I make up something that could potentially destroy my career if it weren’t true?”

  “I’ve seen people do some mighty strange things in circumstances such as these.”

  The senator glared at Nick. He stood his ground, staring back, refusing to budge.

  “Fine.” Ford went to his desk, found a scrap of paper, and jotted down a name and number. He handed it to Nick. “Here. But protect this information. It won’t only destroy my career, but will also hurt her.”

  No mention of hurting his wife. What a piece of work. You think you know someone . . . just went to show that you can never really know someone in public office. All the public sees is the face they want you to see.

  Nick folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “We’ll be as discreet as we can. Thank you.”

  Timmons stood and followed Nick to the car. As soon as the engine roared to life, Timmons exploded. “I cannot believe him. Can you? I mean, have you seen his wife? She’s a beautiful older woman. And he’s cheating on her?”

  “Now, now . . . you don’t know what kind of marriage arrangement they have.” Nick pulled over at the end of the driveway and pulled out the paper and his cell. He dialed the number for the office.

  “Agent Martin.”

  “This is SAC Hagar. I need you to get me an address for a Lila Acer with this phone number.” He read the number off the paper, gave Agent Martin his cell number for easy reference, then hung up.

  “I still can’t believe people cheat on their spouses.”

  “Not everyone has a great marriage, Timmons.”

  “They should try to make it work. Cheating never helps.”

  “No, but—” His cell buzzed. “Agent Hagar.”

  Agent Martin gave him Lila’s address, then hung up.

  Nick put the car in gear and pulled onto the road. “It’s not far from here.”

  Silence filled the cabin.

  “Do you think his wife knows?” Timmons popped his knuckles. “I mean, we always hear that women know, whether they want to or not.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a whole lot on Mrs. Ford right now.”

  “We aren’t going to leak it, Timmons. We’ll just verify his alibi and that should be the end of it.”

  “But every time I see him on television now, I’ll know. And I won’t believe a word he says. Because a cheater has to lie. He has to lie to his wife. To his friends. To himself. So why would I ever believe him?”

  Nick didn’t answer. There was no answer. Funny thing about trust, once it was ripped up, you couldn’t tape it back together again.

  Soon enough, Nick pulled into the driveway of the address for Lila Acer. Modest, but nice. Stone-front house, manicured lawn. A small foreign compact sat under the carport.

  A leggy blonde with startling green eyes answered their knock at the front door. Not at all what Nick had expected. “Uh, Lila Acer?”

  “Yes?” She had a Southern drawl that would make a Georgia peach jealous.

  Nick flashed his badge. “I’m Agent Hagar and this is Agent Timmons. May we ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure. C’mon in.” She stepped aside so they could enter.

  They followed her into the living room, which was bright with color and blooming plants. “Excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.” She smiled, her makeup-less face fresh and young. She couldn’t have been more than thirty. “Please, have a seat. Can I get y’all some tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Nick sat on the couch as did Timmons. He couldn’t help but draw the comparison between her and Mrs. Ford. The age difference. And the race. Was this why Mrs. Ford had endured a lightening procedure? Did the senator make it obvious his preference of lighter-skinned women?

  Lila sat on the love seat diagonal from the couch. “What can I answer for you?” She made you sound like it had four syllables.

  “Ma’am, we need to know what you were doing between eight and nine last Friday morning.”

  She went a little pale. “Excuse me?”

  “We’re investigating a murder, ma’am. Please tell us what you were doing between eight and nine last Friday morning.”

  “Well, I don’t know that I recall, exactly.”

  “Ms. Acer, please.” Nick pitched forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “It’s okay. We just need the truth. You aren’
t in any kind of trouble.”

  “I-I believe I was on the phone. With a friend.” She swallowed so loud it echoed in the room. Her unease was almost palpable.

  “Ma’am, were you on your cell phone or house phone?” If they could pull the records, she wouldn’t really need to admit to anything.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  Nick dug in his pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper and passed it to her. “What number is this? Your house?”

  She stared at the paper, her hands trembling. “This is his handwriting. He gave you this.” She lifted her gaze to Nick. “This is my house number. That’s the phone I was on.”

  Nick smiled and stood. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been a big help.”

  “But I didn’t tell you who I was on the phone with.” She stood, still clutching the scrap of paper.

  “I know. We already know.” He led the way to the front door. “Thank you, Ms. Acer, you’ve been a big help.”

  Once in the car, Timmons let out a long breath. “You let her off easy.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “She’s so young. And pretty. It isn’t fair.”

  “It’s not our place to judge.” Nick raced the engine, but he felt sorry for the senator’s wife. “We’ve verified the senator’s alibi. That’s all we went to do and we did.”

  “He’s such a fraud. He lectures everyone who’ll listen about the inequality for people of color, then has an affair with a white woman.” Timmons shook his head. “And his wife getting her skin lightened? Do you think she knows about the affair?”

  “I don’t know what Mrs. Ford is aware of, and maybe the senator really just wanted to get to know Tiddle better and didn’t have an issue with his daughter dating a white man.”

  “That’d really be hypocritical, now, wouldn’t it?”

  “We’ll pull the phone records for her house, but I think it’s safe to say Ford’s alibi is confirmed.” Nick turned off the highway.

  “Yeah. Hey, while we’re out, let’s run by Ward’s. Let’s see if we can get anything new on his alibi.”

  Nick switched lanes. Three turns later, and he pulled up to Leo Ward’s house. The garage was closed and no cars sat in the driveway.