If you have a boss like Cora LaRue, going to work in the morning is not too difficult at all.
She puffed out her cheeks, then said, “So Jones man, lay it out for me, will you? Where are we? I can take care of Pearson, but sooner or later the Governor himself is going to come calling.”
So I did. I told her of my boyhood relationship with Murton, how we played together, how my mother raised us, how we fought together in the war, our falling out, his visit to the bar and my mother’s grave site, my interviews with Amanda and Samuel Pate, and my talk with Amy Frechette. Thirty minutes later, after I had finished, she asked the most basic of questions. “So what now?”
“I hate to say it,” I said.
“Well, at least we’re on the same page then. Boyhood friends or not, Jonesy, you’ve got to follow this wherever it leads you. Get warrants for Wheeler. One to search his residence and one for his arrest.”
“You asked me to look into Pate, Cora. I’ve had one brief conversation with him. For reasons I can’t readily explain, they’ve invited me Saturday to a gathering at their church. I think I might go and see what I can see. It’s probably a waste of time.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You know how these things work. Get the warrants cut on Wheeler anyway.”
“I just don’t think Murton is involved in the way it seems like he might be.”
“It’s not a request, Jonesy. Get it done.”
I wanted to argue, but she was right, and I think we both knew it.
Sorry, Mom, I thought.
* * *
I filled out the appropriate forms for the warrants, walked them over to the prosecutor’s office, then spent the better part of the day with Sandy reviewing the case notes that had been put together on the murders of Franklin Dugan, Barney Burns, Rhonda Rhodes, and Elle Richardson. But I had a difficult time concentrating as my thoughts bounced back and forth between my growing feelings for Sandy, and my sudden rekindled loyalty to my lifelong friend, Murton Wheeler, whom I felt I was about to betray. I picked up the phone and called Cora in her office. “Got a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ll be right there,” I said, then I hung up and told Sandy I’d be back in a few minutes.
I walked into her office and sat down in front of her desk. “This morning you asked me to get warrants for Murton Wheeler. On the surface I think that’s sound procedure, but there’s something else at play here.”
She was tapping her pen against the blotter on her desk. “Like what?”
“Murton Wheeler worked for Pate. His girlfriend, Amy Frechette, is now one of the Pastors of Grace Community Church. Pate borrowed over five million dollars from Dugan’s bank to buy an all but condemned building. Amy Frechette says she doesn’t know where Wheeler is. The two goons who followed him into the bar the other night also work for Pate. You read my report on the shots fired at the cemetery?”
“Yeah?”
“Who do you think was doing the shooting?”
“My guess would be the two who tried to brace you about Wheeler at the bar. Pate’s guys,” she said. She tapped the pen harder and faster on her blotter.
“Mine too.” I looked at the pen and the little ink marks it made on the desk pad. “Would you mind not doing that, please?” I said.
She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows at me. I looked down for a moment, then raised my hands, my palms toward her as an apology. “So if Wheeler, who works or worked for Pate is responsible for the murder of Franklin Dugan, why would he seek me out at the bar? When I saw him at the cemetery he hadn’t followed me, he was already there.”
“So you’re saying you don’t want to pick him up or search his last known residence?,” she said.
“No. I’m not saying that at all,” I said, but my eyes fell away from hers when I spoke.
“Like it or not, Jonesy, Wheeler’s a part of this.”
“Whether or not I like it has nothing to do with it, Cora.”
“You’re right about that,” she said. “But you don’t have to convince me.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Wheeler is, or was, a friend, right? You two have a history together. You can’t serve a personal agenda and the State at the same time, Jonesy.”
“There is no personal agenda,” I said, but I regretted the lie as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
“So what was in the safe deposit box then?” she said. “I didn’t see that in your report.”
Try to throw Cora a curve ball on an even up count and she’ll check her swing every time. When I did not answer her question, she tried another. “So what is it, exactly, that you want to do?”
I laid it out for her. When I finished she gave her pen a little rat-a-tat-tat on the blotter, winked at me and said, “So let’s take a walk over and talk to the D.A. It should be fun. Did you know he used to teach a criminal law course at Notre Dame? I’m sure we won’t have any trouble convincing him.”
* * *
Preston Elliott, the prosecuting attorney for Marion county was someone I had known for over five years. We weren’t exactly friends, but we had worked together any number of times over the years on different cases. He was a hands-on administrator who still worked his own caseload, put in more hours than anyone else in his office, and held one of the highest conviction rates in the history of the county. He stood five feet, four inches tall, had an attitude consistent with someone who carries a short man complex, and he seemed to tower over his opponents in the courtroom. He took his job seriously and his scotch neat.
When we walked into his office at the end of the day he greeted us from behind his desk without standing up. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and I saw him peek at his watch has he motioned us to the chairs in front of his desk. Twenty minutes later I had laid it out for him.
He looked at me, then at Cora, then back at me. “It’s not enough. Surely you know that. Cora, you told him, right? It’s not enough.”
“It’s where the answers are,” I said. “But Pate’s not talking. If we can get a look at his books, I think—”
Elliott interrupted me. “Have you served the warrant on this Wheeler fellow yet?”
“Not yet” I said.
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “This Wheeler character has served time in Westville for assault. Franklin Dugan, who wrote the note on a five million dollar deal is shot to death in his driveway. Nobody knows where Wheeler is, not even his girlfriend, who coincidentally is the pastor of the church that was bought by Pate with the money he borrowed from the dead banker. Do I have that right?”
“Yes, but—“
Elliott held up a finger. “Let me finish,” he said. He was pacing back and forth now behind his desk, as if he were in the courtroom giving a summation to a jury. “Wheeler worked for Pate, but again, no one knows where Wheeler is. So for reasons you’ve yet to explain, you want to sit on the arrest and search warrants of a convicted felon and instead you want another warrant so you can toss the offices of one of the city’s most famous, and I might add, influential people.”
“Murton Wheeler didn’t have motive,” I said. “Why would he want to kill Dugan?”
“That’s a great question, Jonesy,” Elliott said. His back was to Cora and me, and he spoke to us both through the reflection in the window behind his desk. “Why don’t you use the warrant, pick him up and ask him?”
“I intend to, Preston. But I’m telling you right now, this all leads back to Pate. Murton Wheeler might be a player somehow, but Pate is the one we should be looking at.”
“What proof do you have?”
“He’s under investigation by the Texas Department of Insurance for Fraud out of Houston. His last church burned to the ground,” Cora said.
“Yes. And that would be a matter for the State of Texas, and maybe, just maybe, a matter for the FBI, depending of course on which way the federal winds are currently blowing,” he said, his voice impatient
and thick with sarcasm. “Either way, it’s just a tad bit out of our jurisdiction, Cora. The fact of the matter is, neither of you can offer any proof whatsoever of Samuel Pate’s involvement in the murder of Franklin Dugan. As an officer of the court I appreciate your efforts, but this office has certain standards we like to follow and we can not infringe upon the rights of our citizens based solely on supposition or minimalistic circumstantial evidence. Get me something concrete and I’ll sign off on a warrant. Until then, I suggest you round up this Wheeler fellow and work your case from that angle.” After a moment he turned from the window, looked at Cora and said, “Are you free for dinner tonight?”
* * *
Later that night the phone next to my bed rang just as I was about to fall asleep. I was certain it was Sandy and I did not bother to check the caller I.D. before I answered. The smile in my voice must have been evident because after I said hello the voice that came through the receiver was as soft and feminine as I have ever heard.
“You’ve got your warrant for Pate. One for the office and one for the house.”
“What? Cora? Say that again, will you please?”
“What’s the matter, Jonesy? You sound like you were expecting someone else. I said you’ve got your warrant for Pate.”
As I listened to her speak, I realized her words were slightly over annunciated yet slurred, and it reminded me of my days on patrol when I would stop an intoxicated driver then listen as they tried to talk their way out of a trip to jail. “Uh, that’s great, Cora. How did you pull that off?”
“Don’t ask,” she said, then giggled quietly like a young girl. “Let’s just say my powers of persuasion are still as good as they ever were.”
Among other things, I thought.
“What was that?” she said.
“I didn’t say anything. The connection is bad, I think. Thanks for going to bat for me.”
“Anytime,” she said. “Hey, did you ever see that Far Side cartoon? The one where the couple is in the delivery room at the hospital? The father is standing next to the bed and the doctor is holding their new baby boy right after he comes out of the chute. The father looks at his wife and says, ‘Look honey, it’s a boy. Let’s name him Preston.’” She howled with laughter, then hung up on me.
Out of the chute?
I looked at the caller I.D. It read Elliott, Preston. It was just after one-thirty in the morning.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning, Saturday at ten o’clock, Sandy and I were supposed to meet at the Pate Ministries complex. I saw her State car, but not her so I assumed she was already inside. I looked at my watch and discovered I was about ten minutes late. I had a search warrant for the complex tucked inside my jacket pocket. The lobby of the church had been converted from the wide open space I witnessed on my last visit to a smaller, more intimate setting, the latter being achieved by erecting a three-sided red pipe and drape system, the kind you see at trade shows and conventions. At the front of the enclosure an electrically operated viewing screen had been lowered from its ceiling mount and the images being displayed prior to the screening of tomorrow’s broadcast was a closed circuit view of the enclosed area where I now stood. There were about twenty to twenty-five people scattered about the area, some seated in padded folding chairs which were set out in four rows of twelve across the width of the enclosure. Others either stood or were seated in various places at the round four-top tables covered with white linen cloths and set with dishes and flatware.
I watched myself enter the area on the closed circuit system and almost tripped on the leg of a chair as I did so. A buffet was set up on the left side of the room and the wait staff were busy as they placed stainless steel chafing dishes into their holders. A faint wax-like aroma filled the room from the cans of chafing fuel that burned with blue flames under the containers.
Samuel and Amanda Pate stood at the front of the room next to the lowered view screen and spoke with another man and woman I did not recognize. Samuel had his back to me, the arm bands of his crutches clamped tightly around his suit sleeves. Amanda glanced my way and let her eyes skip across me as if I were not there.
Sandy and I saw each other at the same time, first on the screen, then in real life as she turned around in her chair and looked back at me. She leaned over and whispered something to a handsome man seated next to her, then stood and walked between the chairs to the end of the row. She wore a cream colored sweater dress with matching knit stockings that were just slightly longer than the bottom of her dress. When she walked the tops of her stockings peeked out from under the bottom of her dress and I felt myself swallow as I watched her approach, my mouth suddenly hot and dry.
“Hey, Jonesy,” she said, her hand on my arm. “How are you?”
I ran my tongue over the top of my teeth and tried to get some moisture back in my mouth, but before I said anything, Amanda was at my side and she slipped her left hand into the crook of my arm, the words she spoke directed at Sandy, not me. “Virgil and I go way back. I’m Amanda Pate, Samuel’s wife. You’re one of Virgil’s people, aren’t you?” I moved sideways, away from Amanda’s grasp and crossed my arms in front of my chest.
Her actions were vintage Amanda, I thought. She had the ability to put someone in their place, all while helping them conclude they did it to themselves, any victimization they might feel brought on by their own inadequacies or stature, not the words she spoke. But it wouldn’t play with Sandy, as I was about to find out, and in more ways than one, at that.
Sandy tilted her head slightly and said, “Something like that.”
“Well,” Amanda said with mock sincerity, “I love your little outfit. It’s so, so….”
“Yes?” Sandy said, her eyes blinking more than usual. It’s so what, exactly?”
“Well dear, it’s so, um, edgy I think is the word I’m looking for. Yes, that’s it. It’s so edgy I think I might be a little jealous. You’ve managed to capture just about every man’s attention here this morning. For example, that man you were seated next to just a moment ago. Do you know who that is?”
“It’s your party,” Sandy said. “Don’t you?”
“Of course I know, dear. I was just wondering if you did. He’s a very successful bond trader. Single too. In fact, don’t look, but he’s watching you right now. Would you like me to formally introduce the two of you?”
“We’ve already met, thank you,” Sandy said. “Speaking of attention, I think your husband is trying to get yours.” She looked at me, then said, “Detective Jones, could I speak with you for a moment?” Then to Amanda, “Can’t wait to see the show. I’ve heard it’s a hoot.”
Amanda looked at Sandy, then at me and walked away without saying anything more. Once she was gone I looked at Sandy and said, “hoot?”
She ignored me and waved at the bond trader.
* * *
“What was that all about?” she finally said.
“That,” I said, “was a master manipulator in action.”
“No kidding.” Then, a few seconds later, “What time are they coming?” She was still making eyes with the trader, or at the very least, letting him make eyes with her.
I looked at my watch. “In about thirty seconds. Donatti’s running this squad. Rosie’s at the Pate’s residence. Once they’re in, I want you to keep an eye on Amanda.”
“You got it, boss” she said, her head turned upward at me. I wanted to kiss her right then and there, and I might have, except a number of things happened almost simultaneously. Samuel Pate picked up a spoon and tapped it against the side of a water goblet and said, “Excuse me everyone, if you’ll take a seat please, we’re ready to—”
At the exact same time, Donatti and ten uniformed State Troopers came through the front doors of the lobby. Donatti shouted, “Police! Search warrant! Nobody move. Everyone stay right where you are and keep your hands where I can see them.”
I moved toward Pate. The bond trader who had been flirting with Sandy saw me com
ing, stood up to get out of the way and tripped backwards over the row of chairs behind him. I saw Amanda try to duck behind the drapery out of sight, but Sandy wrapped her arms around her and tackled her to the ground. The drapery and support rods got tangled up in their struggle and fell over the buffet table, then the table and everything on it crashed to the ground as well. People were screaming and trying to get away from the commotion by the buffet and Donatti was still yelling for no one to move. I pointed a finger at Samuel Pate, told him not to move, then ran over to where Sandy was still struggling with Amanda. I yanked the drapery free from the top of them both, then held her down while Sandy got up.
Sandy and I stood up, my foot stationed in the middle of Amanda’s back to hold her in place. Samuel Pate walked across the room knocking chairs aside with his crutches as he approached. I noticed his ability to move about was better than it had been in our previous meetings and I suspected the crutches, while obviously necessary to a certain extent, were just as much stage props as they were an aid to his mobility. “What in God’s name is going on here?” he said, his voice coarse with anger. “Will you take your foot off of my wife’s back please? Why are the police here?”
Sandy was still brushing herself off and straightening her dress. I held her by her upper arm and she had her hand on my own for support. “Step back please, Reverend,” I said. “I’ll speak with you in a moment.”
Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) Page 16