by Bella Knight
“I’ll get Frenchie on it. Did you arrest him?”
“Yes, I was there that night, but this was about nine months before I was elected sheriff, so I wasn’t the main one involved. I did some investigating, sure, but that was mainly Minnie. Minnie Thargood, our forensic accountant. We borrowed her from Reno, and she went back there when she was finished. Have no idea where she is now. Borroy’s dead. Ate his gun not two months after the trial. Not how I wanted to take office, you know? No indications that Borroy was depressed, either. Damnedest thing.”
“Where’s Greeley now?”
“Have no idea. Was doing twenty-five to life, not including the other charges.”
“Somebody has the hots for you, Hunter,” said Beck.
“Someone does,” agreed Bob. “But why go after my wife and child? Thank the universe they’re bad asses, or this could have gotten nasty.”
“Well,” said Beck, “It did get nasty. Someone’s dead, and two of your people are in the hospital. The baby okay?”
“Yes, thank the universe,” said Bob. “My wife would have driven down there to the jail, even with a head injury, and beaten him to death with a ball peen hammer if there had been a scratch on little Diana. Concussion, and no skull fracture on Xenia. Doing an MRI now.” He jiggled Diana. She belched, then cooed.
“Well, we’ll be there soon. Keep me posted.”
“Will do,” said Bob. He hung up, more confused than ever, but with a desire all the way down to his toes to run this down, right until he knew what the hell was going on.
Tanner found the files on Emily Greeley and Annabelle Greeley. Emily was tall, with brown hair and deep brown eyes. Then, wide shoulders and large hands. The crime scene photos caught her in a pool of blood, her blood and hair were also on the corner of the kitchen table.
“Call Tatch. Tell him we’ll send him scanned copies of the forensics,” said Beck to Frenchie. “Her neck is at a weird angle. Methinks that’s odd.” She grabbed her magnifying plastic out of her wallet, and looked closer. “Shadows around her neck, possibly bruises.”
Frenchie called Edwin Tatch, M.D. “Eddie, we got a weird one. Was declared a kitchen accident, but Beck thinks she sees bruising around the neck. Gonna send you wife number two, as well. That one was declared murder and the husband went to prison.” Frenchie looked at Tanner. He pointed to the desk scanner. “Right,” she said.
Beck passed Frenchie the other file. She opened Annabelle’s file. “This is so-obviously strangulation in bed,” said Beck. “Second time husband has returned home from ‘driving around after work,’ and ‘working late when no one else was in the office,’ and then found wifey ‘dead in bed.’ This one was strangled. She was wearing yoga pants and a soft tee. The other one a dress. This one, the hyoid bone was broken.”
Frenchie checked the other autopsy report. “No mention of the hyoid bone at all. Wonder if someone was asleep at the wheel.” The hyoid bone was usually broken during strangulation. “A Doctor Werner Steuss did the autopsy.”
“Retired,” said Tanner. “Fishing somewhere; I think Michigan.”
“Pammy did this one,” said Tanner. “She’s been here for about two years before Sheriff Hunter got elected.”
“So, no coverups with number two,” said Beck. She held up the autopsy photo of Annabelle. “Pretty woman; short, buxom, small hands and feet. It seems he doesn’t have a type.”
“Yes, he does,” said Tanner, looking up from the computer. “I’ve been researching old property records. Went digital in ‘89. Anyway, Emily had property, money, and all from a rich daddy. The place they moved to was hers. He inherited it all, about six hundred thousand, plus the house. Worth a lot more seventeen years ago. Then, he met and married Annabelle Church-Pryse. Daddy was a Church, Mama a Pryse. Car dealership, real estate. New house was hers.”
“So why not make number two look like an accident?” asked Frenchie.
“Working theory,” said Beck. “Somebody knew about wifey number one, and framed him for wifey number two. Someone as cold as ice. And where was she getting the bruises? There’s no evidence that he abused wife number one. And why so long in between bouts? Abusers are nothing, if not consistent.”
“And pathological,” said Frenchie. “Two daughters; one from the first marriage, and one from the last.”
“Marybelle Taton and Louanne Pryse. Louanne married her half-sister’s brother,” said Tanner.
“So, Louanne’s the oldest,” said Beck. “Wonder if they got any money, and how old their husbands and friends are.”
“Think they’re in on it?” asked Frenchie.
“Pissed as hell, and yes, I do, at least the older one. Maybe resentful of Mommy number two, and knows damn-well that Daddy killed Mommy. Maybe Daddy loved Mommy number two and she wanted to punish him for the first murder, and rub it in by killing the woman he loved.”
“That is so twisted,” said Frenchie. “I like it.”
“Let’s prove it,” said Beck.
“I’ll get warrants,” said Tanner.
“I love this one,” said Frenchie. “So twisty, dark and deep.”
“And miles to go before you sleep,” said Beck. “Chop-chop, people. Frenchie, scan and email those reports. Tanner, get warrants for the current financials on the current players. I’ll get some warrants of my own.”
Olivia Benefields was their current data monkey in Reno. Beck got the particulars from Tanner and made the call. “I need everything, from the moment they breathed. How fast can you get it done?”
“Beck, I’m hurt. I can make data jump, dance, swim, and stand on its little-data-head. Will sent a hefty email in fifteen.” Olivia hung up.
“Hot-damn, we’re getting somewhere,” said Tanner. He pulled up pictures of all their drivers’ licenses, printed them out, and put them up on the whiteboard.
“Oooh,” said Frenchie. “The Pryse that Louanne married, Denver —who names their kid Denver? Hmm, is in his early thirties… yep, our guy in jail.”
“More info before we interview,” said Beck.
“Other dude is a lot younger, makes sense since Marybelle was twelve years younger. Married Jason Taton,” said Tanner, pinning up the pictures, and drawing lines to show their relationships.
“Our dead guy,” said Frenchie.
“Don’t mess with the Valkyries,” said Tanner.
“And they are…” asked Beck.
“A motorcycle club,” said Frenchie. “Of badass women. They train with The Society for Creative Anachronism, and learn to shoot a variety of weapons. Love crazy shit like freeclimbing and jumping out of perfectly good planes. Adrenaline junkies. Ride Harleys. Have rides for people that need help, like veterans with PTSD. The Hispanic community calls them chingona, or badass women.”
“I would have thought kidnapping a sheriff married to another sheriff was a bad enough idea,” said Beck.
“These guys are eight kinds of stupid,” said Tanner.
A delivery driver rang the doorbell. Tanner went to find out what was going on, with a hand on his gun, because he hadn’t ordered anything. He took his hand off his gun when the driver took off her helmet, and deliberately exposed her black braids to the camera. He came back with two paper bags full of food.
“From the diner,” said Tanner. “The Valkyries paid for it.”
“Well, hot-damn,” said Frenchie. “They got that soup Xenia keeps raving about? Blue corn? Yeah! Score!”
“Frenchie,” said Beck, “your ADD amazes me.”
“And I get more work done than two agents, and that’s why you love me,” said Frenchie, as she fished around in the bag for a spoon.
Olivia called back. Beck used her little box that was plugged into her computer to project her up on the empty side of the whiteboard. “Cool,” said Olivia. “Okay, here’s the skinny. Louanne was twelve when Mommy died. Daddy inherited, and Mama died before she created a trust. Apparently, Mama was in the process of making one, and there was some sort of messed-up paperwork,
and she was doing it again. Your data retrieval person is da bomb.”
“Cynthia Coran. She wanted every single piece of paper (everywhere) scanned. She works with Dispatch to scan stuff, and all of us when we are not on the road or doing our own paperwork.” Tanner smiled. “Never realized how really cool that was. I’ll tell her in the morning.”
“Anyway,” said Olivia, “Mommy died before she fixed the paperwork, so Daddy got everything. He bought a car dealership. From the court case, it seems that he was investing in real estate, much of which never broke ground, gambling on —and offline, online naked girls, and a tad bit of a prescription drug problem. So, he married wife number two, Annabelle Church-Pryse, who never took her husband’s last name. Good idea, because she already had two.”
Tanner snorted, and took some mushroom soup. Frenchie and Tanner touched spoons. “Focus, people,” said Beck. “Louanne seems to have moved out and gotten married on her eighteenth birthday; nearly to the day, to Denver. Had a miscarriage that may or may not have existed, never went to the hospital, but it was in the trial transcript. Still no kids. Pretended to be pregnant to get married,” Beck speculated. “Well, Mommy number two gave birth nearly immediately to Marybelle. Marybelle was smaller, and a little sickly. She lost her mom at… wait for it… age twelve.”
“Hot-damn,” said Tanner. “History repeats itself.”
“You would have thought that fact would have been important at the trial, but there was a motion to suppress; the first one was ruled an accident, now and forever, until we started digging.”
“Daddy murdered the first wife, and so his money didn’t get lost in a trust,” said Beck.
“So… Louanne murders her stepmom? I can’t see a twelve-year-old deliberately murdering her mom,” said Frenchie.
“Payback, if he really loved her,” said Tanner. “You took my mom, so I’ll take your wife.”
“So, Louanne’s the current baddie. What the fuck were they trying to do? And was Marybelle in on it?”
“Doubtful, if she knew Louanne killed Mommy.”
“Where the fuck is Daddy?” asked Beck.
“Still in jail,” said Tanner. “Dying of lung cancer and, it would seem, AIDS. Had a case of pneumonia that looks suspicious.”
“So, a smoker,” said Frenchie. “And probably contracted AIDS in prison, unless it was from some hooker. Someone went off their nut because he’s dying?”
“What if he swears he didn’t murder his second wife, and his second daughter believes him?” said Tanner, slowly.
“Wait,” said Olivia. “There’s more. Daddy dissipated the money. The house, which at least one of the daughters should have gotten, had three mortgages on it. And, this time, Mama made a trust… in secret.”
“Little scaredy-cat got some balls,” said Frenchie. “Daddy couldn’t have killed her off to prevent it, because he didn’t know about it.”
“She got holdings, not the house, but other properties protected from Daddy. And, get this, Louanne lives in one of them.”
Beck stood, and wrote on the board about the holdings. At the same time, Olivia read them to her, the trust, all of it. “I think I’ve got it,” she said.
“So do I,” said Olivia.
“Daddy killed his first wife. Louanne killed the second one,” said Beck.
“Agreed,” said Frenchie.
“Daddy told second daughter Marybelle he didn’t do it, and that he was railroaded. May have even thrown down the chestnut that he was suspected of murder of his first wife, but he didn’t do it. So, sheriff and deputies were mean and railroaded poor Daddy, who genuinely can’t figure out why he’s in prison,” said Beck.
“Good news is,” said Frenchie, “that Daddy did do one murder, so he’s doing time for murder… just the wrong one!”
“If we’re right,” said Beck. “She convinces her husband to go after whoever they can reach.”
“Why?” asked Frenchie. “It wasn’t money. Nothing was taken from the house.”
“Maybe force Bob to reopen the case?” said Tanner.
“You would think that Marybelle would NOT want that to happen. She killed her second mother,” said Frenchie.
“Nope, she was for it,” said Olivia. “Remember, she’s reliant upon the sister for her lifestyle. She does nails. Her husband is in construction. Her sister has the money, and her honey is a freeloader, a ‘consultant’ that doesn’t seem to consult about anything much at all. He’s written a few little apps, nothing that’s sold, ‘cause there’s better everywhere else. Time management software stuff.”
“Okay, so she goes along because the evidence is a slam-dunk. Blood in the car, something easy for Marybelle to plant. And, Daddy Dearest is dying anyway,” said Frenchie.
“If Daddy does get out, he’s dying, and will die horribly in hospice care. He’ll get better health care in prison,” said Tanner. He took a breath when the women all stared at him. “The justice thing aside.”
“Daddy murdered the first wife, so his money didn’t get lost in a trust,” said Beck. “Justice was served, in a twisted way.”
“So, the boys go after Bob to force him to reopen the case,” said Frenchie. “I hope someone got paid. Makes the case make more sense.”
“Promises,” said Beck. “Marybelle gets the house?”
“We need to get eyes on the other two before they run,” said Beck. “They had to know that something went really wrong by now, or missed a check-in.”
“Got Valkyries on them,” said Tanner. “No one’s moved yet.”
“Not happy about non-law-enforcement watching our suspects,” said Beck.
“Lots of them are ex-military, current law enforcement, firefighters, or paramedics,” said Tanner. “And I’ve got a call out to Judge Reyes. She’s a Valkyrie, too. Was waiting on getting a line of reasoning first. Since they’re married to the perpetrators, we can hold them as material witnesses.”
“Let’s be a tad more delicate than that,” said Beck. “Tanner and Frenchie, go get them. Olivia, keep digging. I want this tied up in a tight-ass bow.”
“On it,” said Tanner.
Frenchie grabbed a bag. “Road tacos, and cans of Coke,” she said.
“Sweet,” said Tanner. Beck waved them off.
Charges
Tanner dialed up Bob, and put him on speakerphone. “Bob, Tanner, on speaker with Frenchie.”
“Hi, guys,” said Bob. He sounded exhausted. “Wife and daughter are sleeping. Unpleasant having to wake the wife up every hour to check her eyes for blown pupils. A random Valkyrie took Reece home. Herja’s standing guard, just in case.”
“We’ve got movement,” said Tanner. “Think we’ve got it figured out, too.”
“Lay it on me,” said Bob. “At this point, pistol-whipping my wife makes zero sense. I did talk more to Reece, and she said that the guys kept trying to force her to call you, but they wouldn’t say why. Said she and Reece figured it was a trap to kill you off.”
“No, it was a way to get you to open a closed case. It seems these idiots had no idea that your wife was either a sheriff or a Valkyrie. We’re picking up the wives. Turns out the younger wife is behind it, or so we think.”
“Hold up. Question everyone first. Get it nailed down. Then, call me back. I can’t be anywhere near this, for several reasons. First of all, this is a conflict of interest, a crime against my family. Or a lot of them. I mean it’s assault, kidnapping, and a minor involved, so it’s special circumstances. Second of all, the FBI is a really big gun, and I say bring out the heavy artillery. Thirdly, I had to keep myself from reaching in and removing the guy’s spleen with my two fingers and a thumb. Bad idea to get me in the same county as him, let alone anywhere near the interrogation. Fourth, I’m exhausted and so angry that it’s gone cold inside.”
“Dangerous,” said Frenchie. “Almost as dangerous as an angry Valkyrie.”
“You join up yet?” asked Bob.
“Not that much of an adrenaline junkie, and I trave
l all the damn time in a car. The Harley would just sit and gather dust, a crime against Harleys everywhere.”
“A shootin’ offense,” agreed Bob. “So, prosecute this case, and prosecute it hard. And then tell me when they’re all remanded for trial.”
“I love them too much to let them sit,” said Frenchie, “But, when I retire, got my eye on a low-rider. We’re digging hard. Talk to you later,” she said, and hung up.
Marybelle Taton lived on a quiet cul-de-sac in a four-bedroom ranch. A blue Jeep was parked in the driveway. They parked, and walked up the short walkway to the house. Tanner knocked, and they had their IDs ready.
They identified themselves, and Frenchie said, “Your husband is at County,” she said. She didn’t finish the sentence, which would have included the word “morgue.” “Can you come with us?”
Marybelle looked lovely. She wore a pretty, blue top, and black, expensive jeans. She had her mother’s tiny hands, and brown hair. She adorned her brother’s flat nose. “Of course,” she said, as if coming into the police station was on her agenda, every day.
She went quietly. She didn’t seem nervous or upset. They dropped her off with Beck, and went back up to pick up Louanne. Louanne lived in a smaller house, in the middle of the street. It was brick rather than adobe, and covered much less of the lot.
“Aha,” said Tanner, as they drove up. “Murder just to own a smaller house.”
“Or to work your way into a bigger one. Marybelle is a real estate agent. Got her start by selling one of her extra houses.”
“Oh ho,” said Tanner. “And Louanne manages a small clothing store. Bet she’s dressed better than Sister because of her discount at her job.”
“No bet,” said Frenchie.
They identified themselves. Louanne wore blue, silk, dress pants and a lighter blue, tunic top, and some very nice silver jewelry. They arrested Marybelle outright, as a killer. They cuffed her, read her rights out to her, and took her in.
Beck and Tanner began the interviews. They started with Denver. He had scratches on his face, taped ribs, and a wrapped hand. He was in leg chains, and one hand was handcuffed to the rail.