Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  Mike’s brow wrinkled. “Am I ready for that?”

  “Dr. Ryan suggested it. You did well with your supper earlier. And your plumbing is working.”

  Mike glared at the nurse. He did not care to have his bathroom abilities discussed. He had not joined in the celebration when his bowels finally decided to do their business late this afternoon. “Can’t a man have some kind of privacy?”

  “No fever. ICP, blood pressure, vitals are normal. You can tolerate light and sit up in bed. You’re lucid. Ornery, but lucid.” The female nurse hooked his IVs onto a portable pole. “Besides, you’ll get more physical therapy in your own room.”

  Mike swallowed, realizing he was going on a general population floor. He called out to his security guard. “Sergeant?”

  The muscled black man appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Pastor?”

  “Does James W. know about this? There’ll be a lot more folks walking by my door on a general floor.”

  Sergeant Bauers nodded, understanding. “I called him as soon as I heard you were moving. Don’t worry. The sheriff’s got you covered twenty-four/seven. Your security will be as tight as ever.”

  The nurses pulled the guardrails on his bed into position, then kicked off the bed’s brakes. “Here but for the grace of God, go I,” he muttered. They wheeled him out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Breaking News

  Bo’s restless night finally ended when the first rays of sun poked through Pearl’s bedroom window. He slid quietly out of bed and headed for the kitchen. He turned on the coffee pot, then reached for his phone. He’d tossed and turned most of the night worrying about Pearl and Angie as they faced an uncertain future. Finally, around four a.m., he’d made a few decisions about what he must do.

  The first thing was to call Aaron Rodriguez and set his plans in place. Aaron answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Aaron, it’s Bo.”

  “You’re up early,” Aaron said, but he didn’t sound like he’d been asleep.

  “I hope you are too.”

  Aaron’s chuckle came across the line. “On my second cup of coffee.”

  “I’m still waiting for mine to brew,” Bo said. “I wanted to catch you before you head up to Austin.”

  “Sure.” Bo heard paper shuffling in the background and surmised Aaron had been reading the newspaper. “You need me to pick something up for you?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to hitch a ride with you.”

  “No problem, but I won’t be coming back until after lunch.”

  “I’m good. I don’t have to be at work until four o’clock today—I’m pulling the nightshift so Angie can head back up to Austin.”

  “We’re good then. I was gonna leave in about an hour. You need a ride back from Pearl’s?”

  “No, I’ve still got Angie’s truck. But I’m not sure when Warren’ll be done with my truck, and I want to get this done first thing.”

  “Where do you wanna go?”

  “Brackenridge Hospital,” Bo answered. “I’ve got some things I gotta take care of.”

  “No problem. Can you be at the Sinclair station in an hour?”

  “Thanks.” Bo clicked off the call, then noticed the coffee pot had spit out enough black brew for his first cup of coffee. He reached for a mug, then stopped.

  How the heck had Aaron known Bo was at Pearl’s house? The two of them had worked very hard at keeping their relationship a secret, and as far as Bo could tell, they’d succeeded. Come to think of it, Aaron knew all kinds of things about folks in town. Well, he probably heard and saw a lot of things working at the only gas station in town.

  Bo was still scratching his head over that when he placed the next call. He knew the sheriff to be an early riser. Still, Bo hoped he wasn’t about to wake the man whose permission Bo needed to talk to Pastor Matt Hayden. The cell began to ring.

  ***

  Angie delivered table seventeen’s lunch order then headed back to the bar. The TV above the cash register still blasted the news of yesterday’s explosion in Benedict County. She shook her head. Two more people had died overnight in the hospital, and another body had been found in the smoldering rubble.

  That made eighteen dead.

  Chelsea punched a drink order into the POS system behind the bar. She followed Angie’s gaze to the TV. “Horrible, isn’t it? And only forty miles away.”

  “They still don’t know how it happened,” Angie agreed. “The truck blew up. Was it a leak? Was it a cigarette? There’s hardly anything left of the truck to examine.”

  Chelsea shook her head. “They’re not telling. Those fire investigators? They know. Or at least have an idea.”

  Angie shrugged. “You’re probably right.” She took the slip that printed out from her computer. “Two Fireman’s Four coming up.”

  Chelsea disappeared into the kitchen.

  Only three tabletops in the bar were occupied. The Europa Soccer League games didn’t start ‘til later. Those millennials from the new start-up down Highway 71 would come in then.

  She smirked as she poured the two beers Chelsea had ordered up. Bo was right. Soccer fans’ money was just as green as NCAA football fans’. She put the drinks on a tray. “Chelsea! Drinks are up,” she called through the pass-through.

  The waitress emerged from the kitchen with a basket of chips and salsa. She loaded up the tray and took it to the table by the juke box.

  Angie called into the kitchen. “Dorothy Jo!”

  Her gray-haired cook appeared in the opening.

  “We’re slow,” Angie said. “Chelsea can handle the bar ‘til Bo gets here. James W. let me know Matt’s been moved out of the neuro unit. I’m gonna head up to Brackenridge.”

  “You gonna be okay, honey?” Dorothy Jo raised her brows in concern. “You know what you’re going back to.”

  “I know I’m going back to the hospital to help protect a person who’s pretty defenseless right now. Despite everything else, that’s who I am.”

  “It’s a good sign they moved him out of PCU. Maybe he’s getting back to...” Dorothy Jo searched for the word. “Normal.”

  “Normal,” Angie huffed out. She pushed through the double swinging doors to the kitchen. “I called Dr. Ryan this morning. She said it’s typical for patients who suffer from Traumatic Brain Disorder go through this anger stage. And so is the memory loss. It’s a phase.” She breathed deeply, let out a sigh. “And it helps to know that his attitude was aggravated due to the pressure on his brain.”

  “Honey, you’re beginning to sound like a doctor,” Dorothy Jo said.

  “I’m gonna have to learn this stuff if I’m goin’ to understand it.” She sent a weak smile Dorothy Jo’s way. “I’m doin’ better than I was. I’m glad I came home.” She headed back out to the bar.

  Chelsea returned from delivering the drinks and chips, then hitched her leg over a bar stool. “They’re ordering lunch, but asked me to give ‘em a minute.”

  Together Angie and Chelsea turned their attention to the TV. While the newscaster gave the latest casualty reports, the video, taken from high above, showed the Wal-Mart and what had been the gas station and McDonald’s. It continued to pan out and the picture now included the state highway and the structures on the other side.

  “Though the destruction on this side of the road was devastating,” the young newswoman said, “state officials are grateful that the explosion and its resulting ball of fire did not have an effect on the fertilizer plant less than three hundred yards away. All of Texas remembers the West plant explosion that took place two years ago—”

  “My God,” Chelsea gasped.

  Angie turned to the girl. Her face had lost all of its color, making the heavy eye make-up and orange-dyed hair grotesque. Chelsea got up from the barstool, her breathing shallow, her balance unsure.

  “What in the world?” Angie hurried around the bar.

  Chelsea put her hands to her knees, and Angie could have sworn she heard the g
irl gag.

  “What’s wrong?” Angie demanded.

  Chelsea shook her head and pushed Angie away. The effort cost her, and she sunk to her knees.

  “Dorothy Jo!” Angie called into the kitchen. “Bring a wet cloth! Chelsea’s fainting!”

  ***

  Peter Pendergast shoved his thinning red hair back into place, then pushed away from his desk. His thin-lipped mouth was agape. Around him reporters from the Dallas Daily News typed, sweated and argued over the next day’s edition. Peter, however, heard none of the cacophony. Instead he could only stare at his computer screen, trying to process the information before him.

  Holy cow, Tom Gibbons had come through. Peter Pendergast was sitting on the mother lode of all stories. He hit print on the document displayed, then watched the four-year-old Miami Herald newspaper articles spit out of the printer.

  Miami Police Chief Charged with Obstruction of Justice, read the first headline.

  Rutledge Indicted on Racketeering and Money Laundering Charges, said the next.

  However, the headline that interested Pendergast the most was the one that read, Accuser in Rutledge Murder Trial Returns to the Stand.

  Peter read on. “Officer Michael Hogan Jr. testified yesterday before Judge Lester’s Criminal Court that former Miami Police Chief Howard Rutledge ordered the murder of the officer’s father, Police Captain Michael Hogan Sr. His accusations drew an immediate, violent reaction from the audience, forcing State District Judge Lester to call a recess. Both the prosecution and the defense were ordered to the Judge’s chambers, after which the Prosecuting Attorney Jeff Rizzo said the questioning of the younger Hogan will resume this morning. Speculation outside the courtroom...”

  The article went on, but Peter’s focus turned to the photo of the young man leaving the Courthouse. His hair was a little lighter. His face younger.

  There was no doubt in Pendergast’s mind however. The young man identified as Officer Michael Hogan Jr.—son of the murdered police captain—was Pastor Matt Hayden. His lips curled in an evil smile. This story would be his first Pulitzer.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bo Pays a Visit

  The sound of the chair scraping against linoleum directly outside his hospital door stirred Mike Hogan from his doze. Neuro PCU had been filled with the noise of swishing machines and beeping monitors. Now moved to a private room on a general floor, Mike was confronted with the sounds of human life. Laughter from the room across the hall spilled out, mixing with the squeak of food carts, the murmurs of family members, and the footsteps of doctors making their rounds.

  Noises made by that specific chair was of particular interest to Mike. Seated in it was Rudy, the retired police officer assigned to protect him. The ruddy-faced, elderly cop was quick to stand when anyone approached this door at the end of the corridor. The sound of the chair scraping as the man rose was Mike’s call to attention that danger might be at hand.

  After all, Rutledge was still out there, and Mike was still alive.

  “I’m here to see Pastor Hayden,” a quiet, bass voice said.

  “I need to see your identification,” came Rudy’s rejoinder.

  Mike shifted in the bed to sit a little straighter, thankful that retired Officer Rudy Lupino was on duty. James W. had picked a fine man to guard him.

  “What do you want to see the preacher about, Mr. Peveto?” Rudy was asking.

  “I need to talk with him about two friends of ours.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Pearl Masterson and Angie O’Day.”

  Angie? Mike’s brow arched. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about her. Missing her. He’d screwed up on how he’d treated her. Scared her off. He wanted to make it right. “I’ll see him,” he called.

  Rudy peeked his head around the corner. “You sure?”

  “Watch from the doorway while he’s here.”

  “Okay, boss. I’ll sign him in.”

  Mike listened as Rudy not only signed the man in, but gave him a pat down.

  A moment later, a tall, thin man filled the doorway. He wore jeans that showed years of wear and a black t-shirt that was frayed a bit at the neck. His face was carved with the wrinkles of a hard life, his graying hair pulled back at his neck. Not a lot of money, Mike surmised, but maybe too much living. It was the man’s eyes, hard and blue, however that sparked Mike’s interest. “You look like someone who’s got something to say.”

  “I do, indeed.” The man took stock of the monitors and other equipment surrounding Mike’s bed, then stepped closer. “Do you know who I am?”

  Rudy quietly assumed a position at the doorway where he could watch the activities in both the room and the corridor.

  “Should I?” Mike answered.

  “I’m Bo. I run the bar at Angie’s Ice House.” The man pulled a chair from its position by the bathroom door, and set it two feet from Mike’s bed. He turned back to the cop, revealing a two-foot-long braided pony tail. “Okay to sit here?”

  Rudy nodded and Bo sat down.

  “Not much to look at, am I?” Mike asked. The swelling was down some, Mike knew, but that didn’t mean much considering his head was still the size of a mush ball. Besides, stitches on a swollen, bruised scalp were probably out of season even in this rough and tough land called Texas.

  “You’ve looked better.”

  “You know me, then?”

  “I don’t know,” the lanky man said. “Who are you?”

  Mike’s smile faded. “I’m not into playing games.”

  “Neither am I. But right now the stakes are pretty high between you, me, and the two people I hold most dear.”

  Mike recognized trouble when he saw it. “Do we have a problem, mister?”

  “Yep.” Bo sat back against the chair. “I know you as Pastor Matt Hayden. A nice guy. Kinda weird. Has a hidden agenda, but then we all do. But Angie says you aren’t him anymore. So who are you?”

  “You’ve talked with Angie?” Her name alone evoked a feeling of hope inside of Mike.

  “Yep. And I didn’t like what you said to her.” Bo crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s my family, or as close as I’m gonna get to havin’ one. I don’t let people hurt members of my family.”

  Something in the man’s face told Mike there was a history behind that statement. “But she’s your boss, right?”

  Bo let his arms go slack, and if Mike didn’t know for a fact he wasn’t packing, he’d’ve been concerned Bo was making ready to draw a weapon.

  “Let’s get this straight. I’m an ex-con. I did twenty years for killing the man who raped my sister. When I got out, nobody’d touch me with a ten-foot pole except for Angie. She went to bat for me. Got me a special dispensation from the County Judge so I could work behind a bar. I can’t drink what I serve or hold a gun, but I sure as hell can make sure the drawer is square at the end of my shift. And that’s all because of Angie.”

  Mike nodded. Bo had only confirmed what the cop in Mike had already known. “Okay. Angie’s one. Who’s the other person you’re worried about me hurting?”

  “A member of your congregation, and the woman I’m going to marry. Pearl Masterson.”

  Mike shrugged. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Look, I understand you don’t remember stuff. Hell, you got shot in the head. But I figured somebody needed to come here and set you straight. A lot of people depend on you, and by God, you better not let them down.”

  “You’re an angry man,” Mike said. He didn’t need to ask any questions. The ex-con was doing just fine telling Mike everything he wanted to know.

  “Damned straight.” Bo stood up, and Rudy instantly came alert at the door. Frustrated, Bo walked behind the chair and grabbed its straight back.

  “I’m not surprised you haven’t always been a preacher. You talked and acted more like a cop than most cops I’ve run into.”

  Which were several in number, Mike surmised.

  “But you were a good preacher. Peopl
e trusted you. You weren’t some high and mighty, bigger-than-life man of the cloth. You were a real guy, being kind to people, saying straight out what’s what. I’m not surprised Angie fell for you. Wilks doesn’t see real people very often. We all have our histories. The parts we play have been written for us by what we’ve done. But you were new. And genuine. You didn’t judge ex-cons, and you didn’t play by the rules of Grace Lutheran’s old holier-than-thous. You were your own man. A man of God, sure, but your own man.”

  Well, that was good news, Mike thought. The whole idea that he’d turned into some pious do-gooder was laughable, to say the least. That was the first thought he’d had when Angie had told him he was a pastor. “So what do you want?”

  “I can’t ask you to be Matt Hayden . You don’t remember him. But I’m appealing to you as a decent human being. Which I think you are. The Pastor Matt Hayden I knew listened to folks, cared about them. Was kind. You don’t have to be a preacher to do that.” Bo sat down again, and leaned forward. “You’re about to get a lot of visitors. You’ve come to mean a lot to these people. You’ve married ’em, buried ’em, prayed with ’em when their loved ones were sick, been their rock when things went bad.”

  “I don’t remember anything about living in Wilks. I don’t know these people. I don’t know you.” Mike leaned his head back against his pillow and considered. Here was a man who talked straight. “I wish I did.”

  “I don’t expect you to be their preacher anymore,” Bo said, “but it would be in everyone’s best interest if you faked it for a while.”

  Mike glared. “And here I thought you might be a good guy to know. I told you earlier, I don’t play games.”

  “You’d better start.” Bo stared back at him. “You’re in witness protection, right?”

  Mike tried to withhold his surprise. How the hell did this guy know that? Was he a Rutledge man?

  “Don’t get that look on your face. Angie told me.” Bo leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You’re in witness protection and that means you have to testify against someone who’s apparently very dangerous.”