by Robin Caroll
He paused, and Riley caught one of the board members on the monitor making a note on her notepad.
“Our parents also gave back to their community. When stateside, they would spend their weekends assisting at the homeless shelter and food kitchens. They also lived as they preached—they tithed well over 10 percent of their income. Truly, they were some of the most selfless and generous people you could ever hope to meet.
“As far as my profession, I’m a senior agent with the FBI.”
That got the board members’ heads jerking up and staring into the camera, eyes wide.
“I hold the justice system in high esteem. I believe that good will triumph over evil. While recent events made me question the legal system, I do believe in it. My parents raised me and my sisters with a strong sense of not just citizenship, but a heightened sense of morality and values.”
He stood, careful to stay in the camera’s lens. “Therefore, I know the statistics of repeat offenders, the rate of reform failure, and the overall lack of success of alcoholics’ rehabilitation.”
Riley’s hands shook. She clasped them tightly together in her lap.
“The facts are that Simon Lancaster got behind the wheel of his oversized pickup truck after having several-too-many shots at the local bar. He ran a stoplight and T-boned our parents’ little compact, ending their lives in a single moment. He was tried, found guilty, and sentenced for this.”
Rafe let out a long and loud sigh. “But these aren’t all the facts. Our mother survived the impact. She made it to the hospital’s emergency room in the back of an ambulance. She held on until I arrived. A damaged spinal cord and multiple, massive internal injuries made her final words just a breath, but I’ll never forget them. ‘Faith, hope, love . . . son.’” Rafe’s voice cracked. “And then our mother was gone forever.”
New tears slid down Riley’s cheeks. The dirty prison room fell away as she remembered her parents. Especially her mother. Rafe had never told her this part before. She silently sobbed for what she’d missed.
Rafe cleared his throat. “Even our mother’s last words weren’t about her. One day, I aspire to be as wonderful of a person as she was. That’s for me to work on. For you, I ask you to take into account all the facts and deny Simon Lancaster’s request for parole.” He sat down. “Thank you.”
“Commissioner, we got an ID on John Doe.” Officer Bubba Fontenot rushed down the police station’s hallway.
Hayden stopped and waited.
Nearly out of breath, the younger officer fell into step beside Hayden. “Lab came back on their NDIS. DNA is a positive match with that of one Matthew Nichols.”
Hayden took the folder and led Bubba into the large room with all the officer cubicles.
“Just heard back from sheriff’s department’s Missing Persons.” Bob Travis pushed away from his desk and leaned back in his chair. “They have the report on Nichols, filed early this morning by his wife, who apparently has been out of town until last night. I’ve sent units to take her statement and bring her in for visual identification of the body.” He passed Hayden a file.
“Let me know if we get anything else in.” Hayden went to his office and studied the missing persons report.
The physical description matched what Hayden had seen of the victim and what Lee had put in the autopsy report. Matthew Nichols was fifty-six years old, employed with For Your Health Managed Care, married for thirty-one years, and the father of a twenty-eight-year-old son who lived in Birmingham, Alabama.
It didn’t make sense. Hayden grabbed the case folder he’d left sitting on his desk and flipped it open. Setting the motive for murder itself aside for the moment, the manner of murder had meaning. The placed location of the body.
He laid out all the facts they had. Nothing even remotely made a connection. Perhaps after speaking with Mrs. Nichols, something would become apparent. They needed something to go on. Some sort of lead.
Hayden glanced at the clock hanging over his door. Time to head to his mom’s. She’d made a farewell dinner for Remington, Rafe, and Riley, and Emily was scheduled to make an appearance.
He sure didn’t want to miss that.
Right.
Chapter Eight
“And will not God bring about justice for his chosen ones, who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off?”
LUKE 18:7
“We’ve gotten several calls about your article today. It seems everyone’s interested in the next one.” Jeremy paused. “Even Mr. Phizer.”
Riley glanced at the magazine on the passenger seat, conveniently opened to her article. Her first real byline. She closed her eyes and rested her head back against her car’s headrest. Amazement seeped into her consciousness. For her morning to have been so horrible at the prison to this awesome news—huge contrast, but she loved it and would relish every second of it she could.
She struggled to contain the scream bubbling up in her chest. “Really?” She forced her voice to remain neutral but probably failed by epic proportions. “I’m glad he’s pleased.”
“You’ll have the next article ready to send me by Wednesday?”
As if she hadn’t already written it. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Excellent.” Another pause. “I’m proud of you, kid.”
“Thanks, Jeremy. I have to go now. I’ll e-mail the article by five on Wednesday.” She ended the call and all but bounced in the driver’s seat.
They loved her article. They loved her series. She was high on the success. This was it—her big chance, and she’d knocked it out of the ballpark. She pumped her fist through the air, then laughed at herself. If anyone inside Ardy Simpson’s house happened to glance out a window to the driveway, they’d think she was insane for sure.
She got out of the car and made her way inside the Simpson home. She knocked twice, then stuck her head inside the door. “Hello?” A mouth-watering aroma met her, welcoming her in a swirl of spicy enticement.
“Riley, come in. I told you not to bother knocking.” Ardy’s quick greeting from the kitchen was as inviting as the fragrant steaming pot on the stove.
Remington and Rafe sat on two of the three bar stools. Emily, with her wispy blonde hair, perched on the stool beside Remington. Thomas Vince stood next to the bar, looking strange and out of place in such a bright and sunny room.
“Hayden should be here in just a minute.” Ardy darted about the kitchen. “Emily, why don’t you and Bella set the table?”
Remington stood, but Emily just tossed a disdainful glare at her mother’s back.
The friction made a polar bear’s den seem warmer.
Riley moved beside Remington. “Let me help.”
“Thanks.” Remington opened a cabinet and passed a stack of plates to Riley. “Emily’s having one of her moods. She’s bipolar. Don’t take it personally,” she whispered under her breath.
Thomas hovered at Remington’s side. “Please, allow me.” He moved with a slight limp. Birth defect? Old injury remnant?
Hayden walked in mere minutes after the last plate and fork were set. “I smell some amazing crawfish étouffée.”
His deep baritone raised the hairs on Riley’s arms, not to mention his smile sent her heartbeat into overdrive. She turned her back to him. Stop reacting like a silly little schoolgirl. Seriously, Jasmine would show better composure.
“About time you got here. We’re starving.” No mistaking the condemnation in Emily’s voice toward her brother.
“Nice to see you too, Em.”
“Let’s all sit down and eat.” Ardy ladled the étouffée into huge bowls. Remington carried two at a time to the table.
Once everyone took seats around the table, Hayden offered up thanks, then the basket of bread passed from person to person. Rafe answered Ardy and Hayden’s q
uestions about how the hearing had gone. It seemed wrong that there was even a sliver of a chance that Simon Lancaster would be released early to live his life while her parents never could.
Riley focused on the delicious food. The rich and creamy étouffée sent her senses reeling with savory spices and flavor.
Ardy smiled down the table at Riley. “I picked up your magazine today. Your article is great. You are a wonderful writer.”
Warmth spreading throughout her chest and not from the spicy food, Riley ducked her head. “Thank you.”
Rafe nudged her. “I read it too. It’s good, sis, really good.”
“Thanks, Rafe. And Jeremy—he’s my editor—called. The magazine’s already getting responses. Even the owner of the magazine is pleased. They’ve accepted the series pitch. The next article will run Monday.”
“That’s impressive, Riley.” Hayden’s eyes were as soft as his voice.
Good thing she was sitting because the butterflies flitting in her gut said her knees would be too weak to stand. Heat marched across her face. “Thank you.”
“So, that’s what you do for a living? Expose other people’s misfortune for your own fame?”
Riley’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped.
“Emily!” Ardy scolded her daughter before offering a red-faced grimace to Riley. “I’m sorry. Emily isn’t feeling very well today.”
Not feeling well? The little brat needed to learn some manners. Riley plastered on a smile for Ardy. “It’s okay. I understand how it can confuse those who don’t understand journalism.” She faced Emily. “I’m actually working with this family in an attempt to gain support for the father’s next appeal.”
Emily snorted. “Whatever you hafta tell yourself to sleep at night.”
“That’s enough, Em.” Hayden’s voice was low . . . steady . . . commanding. Riley could easily imagine him leading the police force.
“I was just—”
“Stop.” His stare left no room for argument. “I said that’s enough.”
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Even the air went still. The hostility suspended over the room could have smothered a small child.
“Fine.” Emily shoved back her chair, the legs grating against the wood floor, and stood. “I can tell where I’m not welcome.” She threw down her napkin and stormed from the room. “Thomas, let’s go.”
Thomas, wearing a look of pure confusion, stood. “I’m sorry, everyone. Please excuse us.” He slowly followed Emily into the living room, his limp a bit more pronounced than normal.
Ardy was on her feet in a second.
Remington followed suit, gently grabbing Ardy’s arm. “Let me. She’s either gone off her meds again or the dosage is wrong. I’ll talk to her.” She left before Ardy could argue.
“Ignore my sister. She uses her illness as an excuse for deplorable behavior. I apologize for her lack of manners and social graces.” Hayden smiled, his eyes as dark as Hershey’s chocolate. “So, will you stay in town while you write the series?”
“Oh, you have to stay here with me.” Ardy sank back to her chair.
Were they kidding? After Emily’s little display? All Riley wanted to do was take a long, hot, soaking bath. “Thank you, but I think it’s best if I stay at a hotel.”
“Oh no. I insist. Hotels are so impersonal.” Ardy’s concern had already shifted.
“In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t really have any hotels here in Hopewell. We have one motel, and I don’t know that I’d recommend it for a lady.”
“Hey, you let me stay there.” Rafe chuckled before turning serious. “But Hayden’s right, Ri. It’s not what you’re used to.”
Great, make her sound like a snob. “I’d planned to stay at a hotel in Baton Rouge. Only to be closer to Jasmine and Peggy for interviews.”
“Baton Rouge isn’t even twenty minutes out. Oh, please, stay with me. I so enjoy having company. Now that Emily’s moved out, this big ole house is too quiet. And I love to cook and can only get Hayden to come out here every couple of days to eat.” Ardy’s voice rose at least an octave or two.
“Think of the money you’ll save the magazine—that should make your editor really happy.” Rafe nodded.
Who was her brother trying to help here?
“I’ll make a deal with you.” Hayden leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper. “You stay with my mom so she’ll have someone to dote over, and I’ll take you out to dinner this weekend. Anywhere you want to go. And I’ll give you a local cop’s insight into your case.”
She opened her mouth to politely decline but no words came. Her emotions seemed to hold her speechless. She swallowed, hard, then licked her lips. “How can I turn down such an offer?”
Ardy smiled, as did Hayden and Rafe.
Riley bowed her head and studied her étouffée, praying no one noticed the heat searing her cheeks.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Nichols.” Hayden sat on an uncomfortable chair in the late Matthew Nichols’s home. Friday had arrived with a snail’s pace, and he couldn’t help feeling relieved the week was finally drawing to a close.
He had a date with Riley Baxter tonight, yet he couldn’t allow himself to think about that now. He had work to do. As such, he couldn’t help himself from taking inventory.
The house sat on a cushy corner lot in an upscale neighborhood. Stone and brick front, carefully cared-for lawn that screamed of a gardener in residence, and an intricately patterned stone walkway. Just a skip away from upper class.
The house’s insides bespoke of an interior decorator and expensive taste. Everything Hayden could see was for show, nothing for comfort, from the prissy and ornate end tables to the hard but perfectly accented chairs.
“Thank you for your condolences.” Mrs. Nichols perched on the edge of her seat, her legs properly crossed at the ankles. Her spine as straight as a rod. “How may I help you, Commissioner?”
He was pretty certain she wouldn’t have entertained his visit if he hadn’t been the commissioner. “I have a few questions about your husband. For our case.”
“Of course.” She gave a slow nod. Not a single, carefully dyed auburn hair dared move out of place of the bob cut popular with his mother’s generation.
Hayden pulled out his notebook and flipped to a blank page. “I understand your husband had been employed by For Your Health, correct?”
“Yes. Matthew was a sales representative for the company. His team’s leader.” The pride slipped from under her polished poise.
“I’m sorry, I have no idea what For Your Health does. Could you help me out by explaining?”
“It’s a managed health-care company.”
He still wanted her to explain it in her own words. He stared back at her, keeping the blank expression in place.
Her smile was reserved. “When you go to your family physician for something specific, and he can’t figure out what’s wrong with you, he refers you to a specialist.”
He nodded.
“Some insurance companies require your physician to provide a referral number to the specialist, similar to a preauthorization.”
“Right. I get that.”
“Most of the time, those types of policies are indicative of a managed-care system utilized by the primary insurance carrier.”
“Our police department’s policy is like that.”
“But of course.” She flashed the dentally perfect smile. “Matthew’s job was to oversee a team of three, himself included, in selling this managed-care plan to local governments. Police departments, fire departments, local politicians.”
He grinned. “Ah, so he sold Hopewell’s agencies on this.”
“Not just Hopewell, but an entire four-parish-wide sweep, including all the little towns and communities within.”
Impressive. “How long did he work for the company?”
She tapped her chin with a perfectly manicured fingernail. “A little over twenty-six years. He took a starting position right before our son was born.”
Right. The son. Who lived in Alabama and according to Officer Travis’s notes from yesterday, was on his way here. Funny it took him almost a week to get one state over.
“It only took Matthew five years to be promoted to team leader.” She smiled like a polite politician. “He still holds the record for being the youngest to reach team leader.”
“Did you ever hear your husband mention a Mr. Ellington?”
“Matthew didn’t discuss business at home. He respected people’s privacy, as well as abided by government regulations regarding privacy.”
Interesting statement. Hayden cleared his throat. “Your husband retired not too long ago?”
Her composure slipped and a frown wrinkled her brow. “Less than six months ago.”
“Do you mind me asking why he retired? He was only fifty-six—that’s a bit young to retire. At least in my book.”
He could tell she struggled with keeping her self-control. “He hadn’t planned on retiring when he did.”
Hayden inched to the edge of his chair and tightened his grip on the pencil. “So, what prompted him to take early retirement?”
“His two team members, Mack Thompson and Evan Coleman, died this year.”
He waited for her to continue. Did the company plan to not give him another team? Or were they going to put him on a team, but not as a leader?
She remained as silent and stoic as a granite statue in her straight-back chair in her formal sitting room.
“I’m not exactly following, Mrs. Nichols. While horrible for his team to have died, I don’t understand how that connects with his retirement.”
“He just felt like it was time for him to retire after they died.” Her lips pinched into a fine line.