“Are you drinking because you like whisky, Mr McLarty? Or do you want to drown a memory in liquor? The problem with drowning a memory in alcohol is that it won’t stay under. Like a dead body, it pops back up to the surface. But you’ve discovered that, haven’t you,
Mr McLarty?”
He took a long swig from the coffee cup but said nothing.
“That was a question Mr McLarty, but I think both of us know the answer.” April lowered her voice. “He beat a woman to death. That’s tough to drown.”
McLarty remained silent.
“Eric. May I call you Eric? Thank you, Eric. Now that we're friends, let me be straight with you. I have a theory about the Mallory trial. I have little hard evidence, but I think my theory is logical and rational so I’m still pursuing it. Eric, my friend, my theory is that Alden Mallory is a man who kills when it is convenient for him. He got away with killing his first wife, but when he tried it again, he got into trouble. The police didn’t buy his 'fell down the stairs' story. He knew he was in trouble. He hired a good lawyer, but he didn’t stop there. I think he bribed two members of the jury. Listen closely, Eric, as the next part of the theory involves you. I think he paid two witnesses to perjure themselves. The state had a solid, if not outstanding, case against him. He wanted to undercut that case, which is why he bought two witnesses. I’ve never met Mallory, but I’m guessing he’s an intelligent man. He expected a not guilty verdict, but only because he bought two witnesses to undercut the prosecution’s case to give a veneer of credibility to the jury’s verdict. He didn’t get the not guilty verdict he wanted, but he got a lesser sentence, which raised a few eyebrows, but not suspicion. All in all, it was a very good strategy for Mallory. The only downside is that it was illegal.”
McLarty drank a bit more of his coffee.
April tried to make her voice sound gentle. “Eric, correct me if I’m wrong, but perhaps you really believed Mallory’s tale, perhaps he convinced you that his wife did fall down the stairs. He paid you well when you worked for him, maybe even gave you a bonus and seemed like a nice guy. So you believed him when he said his wife’s death was unintentional. Did you need money six years ago, Eric?”
After a half minute, he replied, "Yes." His voice stayed low, so low that April could hardly make out his words. “I was married at that time. My wife had an accident, a man slammed into the back of our car. She had injuries. We had insurance, but there were still medical expenses. We were in a financial hole. After the injury, she couldn’t work for a long time.”
"So maybe the tough financial situation made it easier to believe Mallory. You had a little bad luck. Perhaps you thought he was having some bad luck, also. So you thought you’d help him out and get a little money, too. It worked out well for everybody. But later, after the trial was over and after your wife recovered, did you begin thinking about the trial and the other testimony? Did you begin to wonder? Did you begin to question? Guilt is actually a very positive emotion. Only the moral feel guilty.”
“My wife and I divorced two years ago. After that, for some reason, I thought more and more about Mallory and his wife. Thought more and more about it and…”
“Came to an awful conclusion? Did you begin to suspect Mallory intentionally killed his wife?”
He drained the coffee cup, then nodded. She picked up the whisky bottle again.
“Instead of drinking, you could just go to the state attorney and tell him you lied on the stand.”
“And go to prison? For what? They can’t retry Mallory, not even if a witness lied on the stand. I checked.”
April took a deep breath. She hadn’t expected that answer.
“You checked?”
“The state attorney has a web site. On it, there’s a space for questions. I asked about a fictional case involving witnesses who lied under oath. The answer was that when a jury gives a verdict, even under those circumstances, the state attorney probably couldn’t retry the case.”
“Then there’s no way out for you except the bottle. That’s a long, downhill slide. But maybe there is a way for you to find redemption and provide justice for the late Mrs Mallory. It’s also a way for you to stop the drinking.”
He set the cup back on the coffee table.
“I’ll listen to you,” he said
“Six years ago, did Mallory offer you the money personally or did he have someone else do it?”
“Someone else. A friend of his. Mallory was out on bond, but there were restrictions. No conversations with potential witnesses or jurors was one of them. He was basically restricted to his house.”
“So who offered you the money?”
“A man named Dan Webster. He’s the one taking care of Mallory’s house and land currently. I think the two are good friends,” McLarty said.
“Could you get in touch with him?”
“Yes.”
April smiled. “Good. Then to obtain redemption, Eric, here’s what you should do. Phone Mr Webster and tell him there’s a private detective and a reporter asking questions about the Mallory trial. Give him our names, April Longmont and Clay Augustine. Tell him we’ve talked to the two jurors who were on Mallory’s side and have talked to the two witnesses who the defense put on the stand during the trial. Then tell him that we also will soon have records of bank accounts that will prove two jurors were bribed. Those records will be taken to the state attorney. Tell him that I asked you if a Dan Webster bribed you, too. Tell him you denied it but emphasize I knew his name.”
McLarty swallowed and nodded. “That might be dangerous. For you.”
“Maybe, but it’s a risk I’ll take,” April said. “As I noted, I have no hard evidence to back up my theory. Right now my theory means squat in a courtroom. I have to force Webster and Mallory out of the shadows. That will give me proof. I don’t want Mallory to leave the North Carolina Correctional System. I want him to stay behind bars for a long, long time. Call Webster for me, Eric, and you walk the path toward redemption and justice.”
McLarty nodded. “I’ll call him for you.”
“Thank you.”
Redemption,” he said.
“And justice,” April said.
The first hole at the Sand Creek Country Club was a startlingly scenic 530-yard Par 5. The fairway is straight until a dogleg fifty yards from the green. Golfers have to angle their third or perhaps their second shot. A ten-foot stream borders the last two hundred and fifty yards of the fairway. The wide, large green is not only protected by the water but by two large white sand bunkers. Long hitters can drive the green in two, but if they’re a bit off target, the ball plucks into the sand or plunges into the water. Beauty, in golf as in life, can often be perilous.
April, Clay, and Manatee stood with their clubs and carts at the first tee. Manatee took his TaylorMade driver and walked past the markers. He stuck a blue wooden tee into the green grass tee and looked down the fairway.
“You know, you two have set the town abuzz,” Manatee said.
“Us?” April said.
“You’d be surprised at the sand you've kicked up. Got a few people furious.”
Manatee took the driver back and swung. A solid clunk came when his wood hit the ball. It soared down the fairway and eased left, bouncing in the middle of the fairway and kept bouncing. When it stopped, the ball was about two hundred and sixty yards from the tee and in a spot that gave Manatee a good angle for the second shot.
“Would you like to know how much you have disturbed some folks?” Manatee asked as he walked back to his cart.
“Let’s wait until 18th. I don’t want the news to disturb my game” Clay said.
“Let’s just wait until after the first hole. I’m curious,” April said.
“OK, after the first hole,” Clay agreed.
Clay stepped to the tee and slammed the ball dead center perfect in the fairway. It stopped rolling about ten yards behind Manatee’s ball.
“You’ve been practicing,” Manatee said.
&nbs
p; “A little bit.”
“Looks like it paid off.”
The women’s tee was twenty yards away from the men’s and to the left of the fairway. April looked at the two men as she pulled the driver from her bag.
“I feel a little intimidated. Those were two good shots,” she said.
She teed up her ball, then took one last look at the fairway. She took the club back and ripped the tee from the ground with the force of her swing. Her ball zipped through the air, floated toward the right rough but slowly curved left and bounced into the fairway. April yelled with delight.
“Good shot,” Clay said.
She pushed her driver back into her bag. The three walked down the fairway.
“So, Manatee, what is all the fuss about?”
He smiled. “We may have trouble.”
“Right here in River City?” Clay said.
“With a capital ‘T’ that rhymes with ‘P’ that stands for Rollo’s fat father.”
“Rollo, the stalker?”
“You know any others?”
“Yea. Knew a Rollo in high school. But you probably don’t mean him,” Clay said.
“Nope. I have plenty of contacts on the street. One of them told me Rollo’s father wants revenge for what happened to his son. He hired two local thugs to rough us up.”
“Rough us up? I didn’t beat up his son. Why aren’t they just going to rough you up?”
Manatee chuckled. “Even though you were too soft with his son, you did hit the guy. He took umbrage at that.”
“Which is better than taking valium I suppose,” April said.
“Not really. Would have been safer for him to take a Valium. He wouldn’t get hurt taking a Valium.”
They stopped talking when they walked near April’s ball. She pulled out her three wood.
“Going for the green?” Manatee said.
“Yes, got a little wind behind me. I might make it,” she said.
The breeze rippled through her shirt as she stood over the ball. She took a practice swing and heard the club swish over the top of the grass. The ball leaped off the club face when April swung and soared down the right side of the fairway.
“Curve, curve!” Clay said.
April’s hook took hold about fifty yards from the green. It curved into the middle of the fairway, bounced, and landed about five yards off the green.
“Very nice,” Manatee said.
“I’ll take it,” April said.
Clay grabbed a fairway wood. His ball landed about ten yards from the green and bounced on the putting surface. It stopped rolling about thirty feet from the cup.
“You’ve been really, really practicing,” Manatee said.
“A little luck never hurts, either,” Clay replied.
Manatee raised a wood from his bag, then eased it back in and pulled out a three iron. He had a smooth swing, knees bent, head down, and knocked the ball solidly. It flew through the air, not moving an inch right or an inch left. It hit the green, bounced, and stopped after it had rolled five feet past the hole.
“I should have bet on this round,” he said.
As the three walked toward the green, Clay looked at his friend.
“So do you know who he’s hired?”
“Not yet. But I’ve got a few informers who will let me know. Rollo, in case you’re interested, comes from an old-time family. Ancestors have been here for about five generations.”
“So have mine. At least on my mother’s side.”
“Rollo’s father inherited a citrus grove and some other land in the county. Then he moved into fiscal consulting and investment. He has a beach office, right on the ocean,” Manatee said.
“He should have paid more attention to teaching his son moral behavior and proper manners,” April said.
“Alas, a life not well lived. But he only hired two thugs?” Clay said.
“That’s what I hear.”
“I don’t want to get into pride, and I don’t want to be boastful, but isn’t hiring only two thugs being a tad optimistic?”
“Maybe they plan to take us one at a time,” Manatee said. “Then the odds would be two to one.”
“They obviously don’t know I have the strength of ten because my heart is pure. You should be able to take about six local thugs. Your heart may not be pure, but your martial arts skills are darn well remarkable.”
“Perhaps Rollo’s father doesn’t know our reputations,” Manatee said.
“Perhaps not. I try to keep a low profile.
The three walked their carts to the second tee, grabbed their putters, and walked to the green.
April and Clay made two good putts, and each saw their balls drop into the cup. Manatee also knocked his ball in for a birdie.
“Now that the first hole is over, I need to tell you something else,” Manatee said. There’s another rumor I heard. Street talk is you both have contracts out on your lives.”
April had raised her putter to insert it back in her bag. It dropped from her hand and fell to the fairway. She opened her mouth but stared at Manatee. At first, her tongue wouldn’t form any words. Then she stuttered but managed a reply.
“Tell me you’re kidding,” April said
“Sorry, but I’m not.”
“Who wants us dead?”
“A man named Dan Webster.”
Recognition dawned on her. She waited for thirty seconds then gave a slight nod. “He doesn’t waste time. I’ll give him that.”
“You know him?”
“No, never met him, but I hope to soon,” April said.
I think he’s connected with the Mallory case and the murder of Judge Trulock. He is a real good friend of Mr Mallory. We have no proof tying those two to the murder of Judge Trulock yet.” She looked at Clay. “But if he wants to kill us we may get some soon.”
“Or die trying,” Manatee said.
“But if he killed the judge, why would he want a hired man to take care of us?” Clay said.
“The judge was old and not expecting any trouble. You’re much younger and on alert.”
“That might do it,” Clay said.
“A good hit man would also do the job and get out of the county and state quick. Webster wouldn’t have to worry about the man getting caught.”
“I wanted to stir things up. I’m glad I did,” April said.
Clay looked at Manatee. “My friend, why don’t you apply for the job? I don’t think Webster would know we’re friends. Even if he does, you could say money trumps friendship. I need some proof he was involved with the judge’s murder. You could provide it.”
Manatee smiled. “I’ve been a lot of things, but never a hit man. Might be interesting.”
“I admit I’m curious what my life is worth on the open market. Two thousand? Three thousand? It’s rare that you get to know what your true value is as a human being.”
“Money won’t tell you that,” April said.
“True, probably not. It will just tell me my value on the free market. I’m guessing
Ms Harris got a six-figure sum for her cooperation. Think I’m worth that much?”
“Not on your life. Pardon the pun,” Manatee said.
“What would he charge for me?” April said. “If it’s less than Clay, that’s rather sexist.”
Clay chuckled. “Sexist? Perhaps. But hitmen are not considered to be among the most enlightened in our society.”
“So why don’t you look up Mr Webster and make some inquires,” Clay asked. “I’ll bet he’ll hire you in a New York minute. If you get half the money upfront, you can keep it. Unless the police need it for evidence. Which they probably will.”
Manatee grinned. “It’s a good thing you have a friend like me.”
“I’ve often said that.”
April gave a practice swing with her driver. Then she tapped it on the ground. “As horrendous as it sounds, this may give us a chance to prove our theory. Mallory has to give the orders. If we obtain evidence on Webster, he wil
l turn on Mallory. If so, Mallory will stay in prison for the rest of his life.”
“Sounds like you already have the details worked out,” Clay said.
April nodded. “A few, not all of them. But we can work on those after the game. We have to be careful, though. They have killed three people, assuming Brittle doesn’t pop up alive from a three-day hangover.”
“And that’s not even counting you and me, two would-be victims,” Clay said.
“Let’s make sure we stay “would-be” and not actual victims,” April said.
11
Manatee had typed the address into his GPS and allowed the Ford Sonata to guide him to his destination into farming country. The computer told him to drive 7.3 miles down Green Cow Street, then turn right. Half a mile after, the turn would take him into the front yard of
984 Briarwood Lane, where there was a house and farm belonging to Alden Mallory. Dan Webster had instructed him to drive up to the red barn on the property.
As he got closer to the address, Manatee could see the two-level, modern ranch house that looked clean and well maintained, even though its owner had spent the last six years in prison. Obviously, he had good caretakers.
Manatee parked his car and walked toward the barn. As he approached, a medium-height, stout man appeared at the doorway. The man had no distinguishing features except the gun belt wrapped around his waist. A .45 Colt pistol rested in the holster. Manatee wore a coat that hid his shoulder holster and Glock. He wondered who would be faster in a gunfight, the stout man or him. He was betting he could draw and fire before the stout man could get a shot off. The man might be fast, but going face-to-face with your life on the line can make most men apprehensive. Manatee was one of the rare exceptions. He could draw and fire in a cold, methodical motion without worrying about the possible consequences.
“You Manatee?” the man asked.
“I am. You must be Webster.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s don’t bother with amenities. You want two people killed.”
“I might.”
“And I was told the two people are Private Detective Clay Augustine and a reporter named April Longmont.”
A Sea Oak Mystery Boxed Set Page 9