Dead Reckoning (The Still Waters Suspense Series Book 1)

by Dawn Lee McKenna

  MacMac looked up, “Thursday?”

  Evan nodded.

  “Um…” MacMac looked at his hands, seemingly counting on his fingers. After a moment, he snapped them and sat up straighter. “I was out on the Gulf! I was out all night, didn’t come back until breakfast.”

  “Did you have a charter?” Evan asked.

  “No. But I was with someone. I was with a girl I picked up at the Goat.”

  “Ms. Bentencourt?” Goff asked.

  “Ms… No, no, not that one, I just met Melly a couple days ago. This was Cindy…something, Cindy…shoot, she was from Panama City…I can’t think of her last name.”

  “Do you have a phone number for Cindy,” Evan asked, “or an email address?”

  MacMac looked at his lap. “It was just a, just a thing, you know. A one-nighter. I don’t have any way to contact her.”

  “And at what time did you and this mystery woman leave the marina?” Evan asked.

  MacMac looked up. “It was about eleven o’clock, I guess,” he said, a hint of hopefulness in his voice. “And we were gone all night. Didn’t get back till breakfast.”

  “Ten fifty-six, to be exact,” Evan said. “I took the liberty of viewing the marina’s security footage this morning. You and a young lady – Cindy, presumably – board your boat at Ten thirty-four. Then at Ten fifty-six, your boat is seen leaving the marina. You return again at nine twelve the next morning.”

  “ See! See! I told you,” MacMac was practically jumping up and down in his seat. “I was out on the water the whole night. There’s no way I could have killed Hutch!”

  “The problem is,” Evan said, “it appears to clear you, but in reality, you still have plenty of time to dock your boat somewhere else, go kill the sheriff, then come back in the morning, looking like you’ve been on the water all night. Your girlfriend is unreachable, so there’s no way for us to verify your story.”

  “Funny thing about that camera footage,” Goff put in, “it shows the parking lot, where your truck oughtta be. But guess what? It ain’t there. Now, why would you go and park your truck somewhere other than the marina parking lot?”

  “My guess is,” Evan said when MacMac didn’t reply, “you parked your truck a mile or so down the coast – maybe at a private dock, maybe at a little waterfront joint that doesn’t have security cameras – so that after putting your face on the security video at your marina, you could make your way over to this other dock, jump into your truck and drive out to Dead Lakes to meet with Sheriff Hutchins.”

  Mac had his head in his hands again and was shaking it slowly back and forth.

  “Now,” Evan continued, “like I said before, we don’t believe it was you who shot him, but we know your truck was there, and you’ve made it very clear that nobody else drove your truck. You have an alibi, but it’s as suspicious as it is flimsy. I think you know who killed Hutchins, and why. I think you need to start giving us some answers that make sense. Dig deep, Mr. McMillian. Think hard. You didn’t shoot him. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life—”

  MacMac popped upright and snapped his fingers again. “GPS! My GPS, man! I’ve got it wired right into my boat. That thing is always on, man. Check it out! Go check it out. You’ll see. You’ll see I left the marina and didn’t dock again until morning. I swear, you’ll see. We didn’t go nowhere near—”

  He stopped mid-sentence, index finger frozen in mid-point, eyes slowly growing wider until they looked about ready to pop out of his head.

  The words came very slowly now, a reluctant realization. “My…truck. Thursday night. Thursday night my truck was…” MacMac looked to Goff, then to Evan, then down at his hands. “Thursday night my truck wasn’t at the marina because it was in the shop! It was up in White City. I was getting a new lift kit installed. I, I got a receipt. I got a bank statement, shows the check I wrote. I didn’t have my truck that whole weekend, man. You guys! Check the GPS! Check with…”

  MacMac’s excitement died faster than it had started. His face went white.

  “Check with who, Mr. McMillian?” Evan asked, very calmly. “Who was working on your truck last Thursday?”

  MacMac continued to stare at the two, looking shell-shocked.

  “Now is not the time to be covering for your buddy,” Goff said. “Whoever it is left you hangin’ out to dry.”

  MacMac heaved a heavy sigh, “Tommy Morrow,” he said, “Guy that fixes cars cheap out in White City. Tommy Morrow had it.”

  “Listen, Goff,” Evan said as soon as they had stepped out of the interview room, “I don’t want anyone else listening to that tape. And, I doubt I need to tell you this, but do not say a word about this to anybody.”

  “They won’t hear it from me,” Goff assured him. “You thinking Morrow’s good for this?”

  “His story never set well with me,” Evan said. “I can’t think of any legitimate reason why Hutchens would want to spring him early.”

  “Makes one wonder about the nature of their relationship,” Goff mused.

  Yes, it does,” Evan said. “Add to that the fact the the killer’s burner phone spent most of its time in White City, where Morrow lives, and the fact that Morrow was in possession of the truck that met with Hutchens…”

  “And you got yourself a suspect,” Goff finished for him.

  Evan nodded. “I need you to round up a couple deputies and start running down loose ends. Send someone over to Thirsty Goat, see if they have surveillance video from last Thursday. Let’s try to get an ID on Cindy.”

  Goff nodded, drawing a notepad and starting to scribble in it.

  “Get a signed consent form from this kid to search his boat, specifically get that GPS downloaded onto one of our computers and see if we can verify his story. I need warrant requests drawn up for Tommy Morrow’s bank records, and cell records. I’ll also need warrants for his home and business, to verify he was working on Mac’s truck.”

  “I’ll get Crenshaw, Stephens, and Meyers on it,” Goff said. “What else?”

  Evan thought for a moment, then said, “Cell records. Let’s get Tommy’s personal cell number and cross reference it with the killer’s burner phone, see if they match up. Also, go down and pull any evidence we have from Tommy’s most recent arrest, and all the associated documents. We may find something of interest there.”

  “On it,” Goff said. “What are you going to do?”

  Evan studied his sergeant for a moment then asked, “Did you notice the bruising on Mac’s jaw and forearms?”

  “I did,” Goff nodded. “I hear he took a tumble on his boat last night.”

  Evan pursed his lips. “I’m concerned that might not be the only tumble he took. Do you think he might have got roughed up a little by one of our guys after he was in custody?”

  Goff’s eyes narrowed. “Killing a sheriff ain’t a very healthy habit. Not around here,” he said, in slow, measured tones. “Nor is accusing folks of stuff you don’t know nothin’ about.”

  “You’re telling me no one on our staff wanted to get a few licks in on Hutchins’s killer?”

  “I reckon just about all of us want a piece of whoever did it,” Goff said. “But, that don’t mean it’s an impulse we’re gonna act on. ‘Sides, if any of us was going to do something to that kid, he’d be a hell of a lot more banged up than he is.”

  “You’re not giving me a lot of confidence, Goff.”

  “Hate to be the one that’s got to tell you this, boss, but we managed to get along all right for a lot of years before you showed up.”

  Evan sighed, looking through the one-way mirror at MacMac, then made up his mind. “Listen, Goff, this kid didn’t kill Hutchins. After our little chat, I doubt he was involved at all.”

  Goff nodded.

  “Make sure every deputy in the station knows that. I don’t want to see as much as a single new scratch on that kid when I get back.”

  Goff’s icy eyes held Evan’s long enough for the interim sheriff to remember why folks som
etimes called the older man “Frost.” Finally, Goff said. “I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you,” Evan said, evenly. “I have to step out for a few hours. Call me as soon as your guys turn up anything.”

  “What about goin’ and pickin’ up Tomorrow?”

  “Let’s get the warrants first,” Evan said.

  Goff nodded, but he didn’t look happy. Evan thanked him, then headed for the door.

  TWENTY-TWO

  AS SOON AS EVAN’S PILOT was out of the Sheriff’s Department parking lot, he dialed Wewahitchka Police Department, intending to ask for Chief Beckett. The greeting told him he could skip a step.

  “This is Beck,” his voice was smooth, with an inflection of either familiarity or contempt. Evan couldn’t tell which.

  “Chief Beckett, this is Evan Caldwell from…”

  “Well, Sheriff Caldwell!” Beckett chuckled. “What a lovely surprise! I was just fantasizing about you.”

  Evan didn’t bite. “I have a bit of business I need to take care of in White City. I could use some backup, preferably officers who were not particularly close to Hutchins.”

  Beckett chuckled again. “Well, Bigtime, I guess you called the right guy.”

  “I’m on my way up there now. Can I meet you somewhere?”

  “Sure thing,” Beckett said. “There’s a country store on the corner of Highway 71 and Volunteer Avenue. I’ll see you there.”

  When Evan arrived fifteen minutes later, Beckett was already waiting for him, even though his drive from Wewahitchka was twice the distance. Evan didn’t bother to comment on this. Instead, he laid the file on the hood of Beckett’s Monte Carlo and brought him up to speed on the case.

  When he had finished, Beckett shook his head. “Tommy Morrow. Man. Never would have picked him for it.”

  “I don’t have this locked down, yet,” Evan said, “but the pieces are coming together. I was hoping to have a word with him, and maybe have someone with me who’s a little more objective than my deputies seem to be at the moment.”

  “You’ve got some impetuous boys over there. I could see a couple of those guys losing their…what did you call it? Objectivity?” Beckett’s broad grin spread across his face. “Best to call in someone who isn’t too upset about a world without the Hutch.”

  “Something like that,” Evan said.

  “Well then, let’s go have a chat with Tomorrow.” Beckett said thumping Evan on the shoulder. “I’ll have one of my officers meet us out there.”

  Beckett followed Evan out of the country store’s lot, toward the edge of White City limits. It wasn’t a long drive. On the way, Evan’s phone rang. When he answered, Deputy Crenshaw’s voice greeted him.

  “MacMac’s story checks out,” Crenshaw said. Evan heard a seatbelt warning chime in the background, then a car door slamming. “I just finished up at his boat. The GPS shows he left the marina around eleven and didn’t go anywhere near land until late morning. He’s got a receipt from Tommy Morrow dated the Monday after Hutch was killed. I’m headed over to the Thirsty Goat now, to see what they have in the way of video from that night, but it looks like MacMac is in the clear.”

  “Yeah,” Evan said, “I think that’s going to turn out to be the case. Where are we on that cell data?”

  “Meyers and Stephens are working on it. Don’t know it they came up with anything yet,” Crenshaw said. “Glad I didn’t pull that duty. That’s some tedious crap right there.”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” Evan said. He was just pulling into the Morrow’s property. At the far end of the drive, someone was hunkered under the hood of an old GMC, elbow-deep in the engine. “Thanks for the update. Have those guys call me as soon as they have anything.”

  “Will do,” Crenshaw said, then hung up.

  Beckett’s black Monte Carlo slid up alongside Evan’s SUV as he came to a stop. The two men stepped out of their vehicles and approached the mechanic. Tommy Morrow looked up from his work and forced a welcoming, though nervous, smile.

  “Sheriff,” he said, nodding, “Chief.”

  His hands were black with grease, but as Evan approached, Morrow slipped on a pair of leather work gloves.

  Beckett stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “Tommy Morrow! How you doing, my man?”

  Morrow instinctively accepted the Chief’s hand. As soon as their hands were clasped, Beckett shook, then jerked the glove off.

  “Hey!” Tommy shouted, and quickly covered his right hand with his left. But it was way too late for that. The two parallel slices that cut through the webbing between Tommy’s thumb and forefinger were clearly evident, even under the thick layer of grease.

  “Wow, Tommy,” Beckett said. “That is a nasty cut. How’d you manage to do that?”

  “Cooling fan,” Tommy said, instantly. Then, in a better imitation of a natural response, he tried again, “One of those new cooling fans that kicks on automatically. I was messing with the radiator, fixing to pull it, and…”

  Beckett was smiling. “Tommy, you’ve been turning wrenches since before you could walk. There ain’t no way you forgot to disconnect a cooling fan before sticking your hand in it.” He stared at Tommy, daring him to speak again. When he didn’t, Beckett said, “You’re a hell of a mechanic, Tommy, but you can’t lie to save your life. Never could.”

  Tommy took a slow step backward, away from Beckett, and shot a glance over his shoulder to the door of his trailer. Evan had already moved up beside the kid while he was focused on Beckett.

  “Don’t try it, Tommy. You know I’m faster than you. And slim, here,” he nodded at Evan, “he’s got surfer legs, might be faster than the both of us.”

  “It…it was a cooling fan,” Tommy tried again. “I swear. It kicked on…automatically. When I was fixing to pull the radiator…”

  “On which vehicle?” Beckett asked.

  Tommy was shaking his head, but didn’t answer. A crunching of gravel alerted them to another vehicle arriving. Tommy’s shoulders slumped. Evan chanced a quick glance and saw the black-and-white Wewahitchka police cruiser coming to a stop beside Beckett’s Monte Carlo.

  “Mr. Morrow,” Evan spoke up, “last weekend, you installed a lift kit on a 1997 Ford Ranger owned by a Mr. Mac McMillian.”

  Tommy’s face lost what little color it had left. His shoes began walking backward, seemingly without any input from their owner.

  “You picked the vehicle up from the Port St. Joe Marina Thursday afternoon and returned it Monday afternoon. You were in sole possession of that vehicle during that time. Is that correct?”

  Tommy’s back peddling brought him to the open hood of the GMC. His butt bumped against it, stopping him. He put a hand into the engine compartment and came out with a large wrench. Evan dropped his hand to his service weapon, but didn’t draw. Tommy didn’t brandish the wrench as a weapon, but rather clutched it to his chest like a security blanket.

  “Talk to us, Tommy,” Beckett said, an almost friendly appeal. “Say something other than ‘cooling fan.’”

  Tommy just stared at the dirt between his feet, wringing both hands on the wrench and shaking his head. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to Evan or Beckett. “This ain’t right,” he muttered. “This ain’t right. This ain’t how it was supposed to happen.”

  “Mr. Morrow,” Evan spoke with calm authority, “I am taking you into custody on suspicion of murder. We are going to ride up to Wewahitchka. You can tell us exactly what was supposed to happen and what went wrong.”

  “But, it wasn’t murder. I didn’t murder nobody,” Tommy said, bringing his eyes up to Evan’s. “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

  “I can see that, Tommy,” Evan said, nodding. “Why don’t you put that wrench down. We’ll get you cleaned up and see how much of this mess we can straighten out.”

  Tommy shook his head, slowly, and dropped the wrench on the GMC’s bumper, continuing to deny he had murdered anybody. Evan continued to disbelieve him. He also couldn’t help feeling that he wished so
meone else had been their guy. He didn’t have a specific reason for that, just a vague sadness.

  On Beckett’s orders, the uniformed officer worked with Tommy to get the worst of the grease off his hands and arms, then got him secured in handcuffs and situated in the back of the cruiser.

  As they drove north on Highway 71 to Wewahitchka, Evan called his office and asked to speak with either Meyers or Stephens, the two deputies who had been assigned to sort through the cell data. Meyers picked up the phone.

  “We haven’t quite finished yet,” Meyers said, “but we already have more than enough to nail this kid to the wall.”

  “Spell it out for me,” Evan said.

  “Tommy’s cell phone pings all the same towers, at the same times, as the burner phone we recovered from the lake. We’re working through the rest of the data, eliminating all the other numbers, which will take a few more hours, but this is a slam dunk. He’s had that phone with him at all times for at least two weeks before the murder.”

  “What about the night of the murder?” Evan asked.

  “Yep, all day, until about twelve-thirty that night,” Meyers said. “The burner gets a call. Ten minutes later, when it pings, it’s hitting different towers than Tommy’s cell. Tommy’s is still in White City, while the burner is moving north toward Dead Lakes.”

  Evan thanked Meyers and let him go. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly. He had no doubt that Tommy had shot Hutchins, it was the only way to interpret the evidence they had collected thus far, but he could not see Tommy at the center of this crime. Someone else had been pulling Tommy’s strings. That was the only way this made sense. But who?

  Tommy might tell them, but just as likely, he wouldn’t. If someone had been persuasive enough to convince him to murder a county sheriff, they would likely succeed at persuading him to keep his mouth shut. Evan was surprised Tommy hadn’t been their second body.

  He was still wrestling these thoughts when he pulled into the Wewa Police Station. Evan felt a twinge of panic when the patrol car bypassed the parking lot and instead drove around behind the station. He had visions of Tommy disappearing, through one nefarious scheme or another. He put his car in reverse, intending to back out and follow the cruiser, but then he saw the sign marked ‘Sally Port’ pointing to the rear of the building. He realized the officer was just following standard procedure for dropping off a prisoner.