Lia Farrell - Mae December 02 - Two Dogs Lie Sleeping

by Lia Farrell

  He was well aware they would have a tough time getting Covington for premeditated murder for Ryan Gentry. But they could probably get him on Murder Two, which would result in ten to twelve years of jail time. Ben was sure Townsend had planned the Gentry murder in advance, even if only a day or two before. That should result in Murder One, but the rule that prohibited them from proving conspiracy because it had been more than ten years would bar that door. However, if the prints on the belt were Covington’s, it would provide Ben with enough ammo to keep him locked up until the trial. It would also give him more time to get evidence on the slippery Greg Townsend.

  The sheriff glanced at his watch; it was only 7:30. He opened the office door and saw Ned Thompson sitting at Dory’s desk. Between Deputies George and Rob, Dory and their two floaters, Ned and Jackie Forte, they’d managed to cover the office 24/7 for the first time in living memory.

  “Good morning, Ned,” he said. He thought Ned looked tired. He was a big, slow-moving guy, with a bald head and hardly any eyebrows. At first, Ben thought he shaved his hair off, until Dory told him that Ned had alopecia, an autoimmune disease that causes hair loss all over the body.

  “Morning, boss.”

  “Ned, could you call the lab and see if Emma Peters or Hadley Johns are in yet? Put them through if you rouse anybody.” Ned nodded and Ben walked back to his office. His phone rang about an hour later.

  “Sheriff, Emma Peters here. What did you need?”

  “Did you ever check the fingerprints on Ryan Gentry’s belt? Detective Nichols said he was taking it to the lab on the eighth.”

  “Sure did. I sent a report upstairs the next day. You should’ve gotten it on the ninth.”

  Ben gave an inward howl of frustration. Whoever had failed to give him that information was going to die. “Okay. Thanks. Other than the vic, did you get a match to anyone in the database?” He tried to keep his voice neutral.

  “Sure did, a lowlife named Henry Covington.”

  The sheriff felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. “Thanks, Emma.”

  He looked through his inbox for the first time in several days, dismayed when he saw the Lab Report lying there. He had no one to blame but himself. He dialed Wayne.

  “Nichols.” His detective’s voice sounded better than it had since the shooting.

  “You can go pick up Covington again.” Satisfaction permeated Ben’s voice. “I have his fingerprints on Ryan Gentry’s belt, and he threatened Mae yesterday.”

  He heard Wayne mutter, “If he hurt her, that son-of-a-bitch’ll be sorry.”

  “He twisted her arm, and he’s going to have years in jail to regret it. Take Deputy Fuller with you and go get Henry. When you bring him back here put him in a cell. Read him his rights, but take your own sweet time before you call his lawyer. I have a visit to pay to Mr. Greg Townsend.”

  “With pleasure, Boss,” he heard before he ended the call.

  The sheriff dialed PD Pascoe’s number and told him about the fingerprint match to Covington on Ryan Gentry’s belt. “You were right, Detective,” Ben said. “It was murder. You called it from day one.”

  He heard Pascoe heave a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, Bradley. The cancer is winning, but that’s a big weight off my mind.”

  “I’ll be thinking about you,” Ben said softly. “Good luck, and I’ll call you when Covington goes to trial.”

  Dory got an appointment for the sheriff with Attorney Greg Townsend at two that afternoon. At noon, Ben went home to change into his uniform. He’d go strapped too, he decided. He needed all the props he could get. He walked into the lavishly decorated reception area of the Osbourne, Townsend, Phillips and Coniglio law firm half an hour early. It was an impressive old building. The floor was marble and the reception desk was dark wood topped with granite. A young blonde woman with her hair in a sleek twist at the back of her neck raised her large gray eyes.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, unsmiling.

  “Yes. I’m Sheriff Ben Bradley; Mr. Townsend’s expecting me at two.”

  “Just a moment,” she told him, checking her computer screen. “Please be seated, and I’ll let him know you’re here.” She looked at his uniform and added, “Sheriff.”

  Bradley sat down in a dark blue velvet chair and looked out at a sign across the street with a continuous temperature reading. It read 87 degrees. The receptionist was back in ten minutes saying, “I’ll escort you in now.”

  The sheriff followed her through a maze of cubicles to the back of the building, where the offices were much larger and still had their original wide baseboards and moldings. The multi-panel dark oak doors were at least seven feet tall and over three feet wide. The original black iron door handles and lock sets were still in place. The girl opened the door and called into the office saying, “Sheriff Bradley is here to see you, sir.”

  Greg Townsend, attorney at law, walked out and said, “Please come in, Sheriff.” He seemed calm and welcoming, almost jovial. Ben’s limbs grew shaky and he wished he’d brought Wayne with him.

  “Let’s sit at the conference table,” Townsend said. The table was fifteen feet long and as far as Ben could tell was made of solid mahogany under the thick glass cover. Upholstered gray chairs encircled the table. A sideboard held coffee and tea. Townsend sat at the head of the table; the sheriff took his place to Greg’s right.

  “What’s the reason for the visit, Sheriff?” Greg tented his fingers and tipped his thumbs to his lips. His eyes were dark, expressionless.

  The sheriff waited a moment, trying to get control of his emotions. This was the man who had ordered Covington to murder two young men. He bit his bottom lip and felt a righteous anger bloom in his belly.

  “Mr. Townsend, as you see, I’m here by myself. In case you were concerned, I’m not wearing a wire. I could have had you brought down to the station for this conversation, but decided to have a private confidential talk instead.” Ben paused, lowered his shoulders and continued, “I know it was you who told Henry Covington to throw Ryan Gentry out the window of the Sigma Chi fraternity house on January third, fifteen years ago. I also know that you, Henry Covington, and Charlie Armor were offered bribes of ten thousand each to throw the big bowl game with Florida State that year. We’ve talked to Armor. He’s willing to testify. Ryan Gentry must have caught on to the scheme when he saw the money in the fraternity account.” Ben took a breath and his eyes bored into Greg’s.

  Greg leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded, expressionless. His hands were resting on the table now, but Ben could see that a mist was beginning to form on the glass under his fingers. Greg Townsend’s hands were sweating.

  “The statute of limitations for conspiracy to murder runs out after ten years,” Townsend said.

  Sheriff Bradley nodded and continued. His throat was tight, but he refused to let Greg get to him. “My guess is that Henry Covington told Tom Ferris to leave town because he thought Gentry might have confided in Ferris about the money. When Ferris returned to Rosedale, Covington spotted him at his attorney’s office in your building and came to you. You ordered Covington to take him out. We know that Covington shot Ferris in the back with a Beretta Tomcat. We have the bullet from his gun.”

  “You can stop right there. I’m aware that you brought these unsupported allegations about Henry Covington to the DA’s office.” His voice was monotone, but Ben could see controlled anger in his eyes. “They tossed out the case. If you think they’ll listen to more off-the-wall allegations from you, especially ones about me, think again.” Greg’s eyes were flat, serpentine.

  “Since we brought the original case to the prosecutor, more evidence—irrefutable evidence—has come to light.” Greg looked like a fox who had just heard the distant baying of bloodhounds. “Ryan Gentry was lifted by the belt and thrown from his bedroom window. We have the belt. We have Covington’s prints on it. He’s being picked up again now. He had the bad judgment to strong-arm my girlfriend yesterday—w
arned her to tell me to leave you and your family alone. Regardless of your pull with the DA, they can’t refuse to try Covington with that kind of evidence.”

  “If Henry did that, he acted alone. Nothing you’ve said implicates me.”

  “How much more money went through that fraternity account after the game, Townsend? I can’t believe you’d risk so much for a mere ten thousand dollars. You’re implicated all right.”

  Greg’s legs were crossed and his knee was bouncing repetitively. For some reason, maybe the mention of money, his composure was cracking. Beads of sweat were visible on his forehead.

  “Is it getting a little hot in here?” the sheriff asked. “If I take these new allegations about you to the district attorney, you’ll never get the assistant district attorney position. Nobody in this town will touch you with a ten foot pole. You won’t even be able to make any money chasing ambulances.”

  Greg’s eyes were hard and flinty, and his face was turning red. He crossed his arms across his chest, tapping his fingers on his upper arms. “If you’re stupid enough to bring these unsubstantiated charges against me, I’ll see to it that you lose the next election, Bradley. You’ll never serve in law enforcement again.” He stood up and pointed to the door. “Get out.”

  “What’re you going to say when Covington flips on you, Townsend? He isn’t that smart, you know. You’ve always had to tell him what to do. With one second degree murder and one pre-meditated on his slate, he’s facing life without parole. He can shorten his sentence considerably by giving you up. With Detective Nichols interrogating him, he’s going to crack. He’ll confess to the murders. He’ll be on his knees begging in twenty-four hours.”

  “It won’t happen,” Greg said, but a vein was twitching on his forehead.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” the sheriff said. “I have a feeling Covington told Ferris to leave town without your permission. It was a stupid move. Then you had to make him clean up the problem. Once Detective Nichols gets going on him—and he probably has fifty IQ points on Covington—he’ll give you up. You aren’t Henry’s attorney. Your communications with him have never been privileged.”

  “Out, Sheriff.” Greg Townsend’s voice was cold and furious. He walked over to the door and swung it open. “And if you ever repeat any of these allegations to the DA’s office, you’ll be very sorry.”

  “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back, Townsend. This isn’t over.” Ben turned and left, closing the conference room door quietly behind him.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Mae December

  Mae opened her eyes and looked around her sunny bedroom. Ben was gone. She stretched, feeling the soreness in her arm and shoulder. Climbing out of her bed with great reluctance, she pulled on a T-shirt and jeans. She looked at her right arm and saw that it was bruised where Henry had grabbed her. Rotating her shoulders and cracking her neck, she went downstairs for some much-needed caffeine and puppy time.

  After she took all four dogs outside, she fed and watered them. Then she poured herself a second cup of coffee. Her cellphone, charging on the counter, started to ring. Mae pulled the charger cord out of her phone and sat down at her kitchen table.

  It was her sister. They were going to meet up this morning.

  Mae told her about Henry Covington’s threat the day before.

  “I’m so sorry, Mae,” July said. “Are you okay?”

  There was a loud ruckus in the background. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you over there. Parker,” she hollered, “stop right there!”

  Mae laughed. “Good-bye.”

  Her phone rang again. Mae recognized her best friend’s number.

  “Hi Tammy.”

  “Good morning—did Ben tell you he asked Patrick and me to move in with you again, temporarily?”

  “No. But that’s fine. One of the suspects in Tommy’s murder threatened me yesterday. Let me check which nights Ben is going to be here before you start packing.”

  “Are you all right by yourself until dinnertime? We can be out around six.”

  “I think Ben’s coming back tonight. Anyway, I’ve got to get off the phone and get dressed. I need to go do something this morning at the Booth Mansion. Can I call you after that? Or I’ll text you if I need you tonight.”

  “Sure thing, Mae-Mae. Stay out of trouble.”

  After getting dressed, Mae had a little extra time before she needed to leave. She decided to put in a session training her new puppy. Mae whistled for Titan and carried little Tater back outside. Putting the puppy beside the older corgi, she started with the easiest command.

  “Sit,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. Titan obediently sat. She walked over to little Tater, who was rolling in the grass, and put her in a sit position. Then she petted Titan and said he was a good boy. She gave Titan a treat and praised him extravagantly, making sure Tater saw it. After two more tries, Tater started watching Titan. Once more and she had it. Mae worked on “sit” several more minutes before she was confident the puppy knew the command.

  “Let’s try another one,” she said. “Titan down.” He lay down in the grass. “Tater, down.” The puppy ran over to her. “No.” She carried the pup back. “Tater down.” This one took a little longer, but eventually Tater would go into a very brief “down” position before she couldn’t stand it any longer and dashed over to Mae.

  “Just one more, guys, and then we’ll call it a day,” she told them. Mae placed the two corgis side by side. “Stay,” she said, making her voice strong and deep. Keeping her arm extended and her palm up, she turned and walked eight feet away. She looked back to see Titan where she had placed him. He was so still, he looked as if he was about to go to sleep.

  She looked all around, “Tater?” she called. Where is she? Hearing a tiny yip, she looked down. Tater was practically on top of her foot. Her little face looked up expectantly, ears raised. Mae sighed.

  “Okay, we’ll try again tomorrow. Titan,” she touched him with the toe of her shoe. “Wake up. We’re going back inside.”

  Mae pulled into the wet parking lot behind the Booth Mansion at nine. It had rained on and off all morning, but the skies were clearing. For an August morning in Tennessee, the air was remarkably cool. She looked around with interest at the finished landscape and the beautiful old home. Having been here at the “before” segment of the project, she noted a striking difference in the “after.” Miranda was waiting for her, framed by the open back door that led into July’s assigned space. July was standing beside her.

  Mae walked toward them. “Hi, Miranda, hi, July.”

  Her sister was pale and wan. Miranda’s elbows were pressed hard against her body, as if she wanted to appear as small as possible. This was clearly difficult for both of them. Miranda gave Mae a half-hearted smile, gesturing for her to come in. Mae went inside and Miranda closed the door behind her. The light from the transom window above the door hit the floor, making it gleam. Their footsteps echoed on the hard marble as they walked down the hall.

  “July told me about the letter from Tommy,” Miranda said. “Apparently he asked her to search for some papers of my dad’s. We’re going to look in the study.”

  Mae and July followed her into the wood-paneled, richly furnished room. Miranda indicated the ornate desk by the fireplace. “That’s my father’s desk. The designer for the study wanted to use the original furniture. But I went through it carefully years ago, before the house was ever rented. There aren’t any papers of his left in here.”

  July unfolded the letter on the top of the desk and tapped the second page. “Tommy said there’s a compartment in the base of the desk chair. Can you help me turn it over?”

  Miranda grabbed the arms of the green leather club chair and leaned it back, while July and Mae each took hold of the bottom section, where the wheeled casters were. When the chair was upside down, July twisted the base counterclockwise. The bottom of the chair came off, and in the hollowed-out space there was a metal box. Miranda snatched it up and
placed it on the desk. She stood staring down at the dented tin of the lid. “How did Tommy know about that when I didn’t?” she murmured.

  “Your dad showed it to him when he got that chair.” July spoke in a soft voice. “Miranda, are you going to open it?”

  She gave a barely perceptible nod, took a deep breath and unhooked the latch. Mae and July looked at each other and leaned forward to peek inside. There was a folded sheet of paper that Miranda lifted and set aside. Underneath the paper were bundles of cash wrapped in paper. Lots of them. Miranda’s throat moved as she gulped. She cleared her throat.

  Unfolding the paper, she scanned it quickly. Putting it back in the box, she closed the lid and latched it. She heaved a deep sigh. Looking up at Mae and July with unfocused eyes, she said, “I guess you already know that Bethany Cooper believes she and I share the same father. I wouldn’t even consider it before, but there’s a Declaration of Paternity in the box. Bethany was right.” Miranda was quiet for a moment. She looked away and then continued, “Looks like I need to call Bethany and apologize.” She picked up the box and walked down the hall.

  “What are you going to do with the money?” July asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Miranda said. “I trust the two of you will keep quiet about it until I decide.”

  “We will,” July said, after a brief hesitation. Mae didn’t answer.

  They followed Miranda out of the silent house.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Detective Wayne Nichols

  Detective Nichols was driving the patrol car. Deputy Rob Fuller was in the front passenger seat. Henry Covington sat handcuffed in the back seat. All three of them were quiet as they drove back to the office. The only sounds were the bulletins from the police radio.

  “Put Covington in the interrogation room,” the detective told Deputy Rob when they walked inside. He walked over to the sheriff, who was standing by Dory’s desk. “The perp’s going to want his lawyer.”