by Rick Reed
Chapter 56
Uniformed and plainclothes officers milled around inside the small visitation room at Alexander Funeral Home. More of them stood outside in the parking area or leaned against the police cars that would make up the procession to the crematorium.
Almost a week had passed since the carnage at the Dick mansion in Warrick County. Statements were taken, fingerprints of the corpses taken, forensic evidence collected, weapons test-fired for ballistics, and the questioning of everyone had continued ad nauseam. The incoming mayor, Benet Cato, had fired her abrasive assistant, the one Liddell had rightly dubbed Tilly the Hun, and consequently had stopped giving the current mayor a load of grief. He was getting enough grief from everyone. The news media—Claudine Setera—were blaming Cato for the cock-ups. She’d been labeled as a heartless bully. Her ratings were down and somehow her credit score had tanked along with her popularity.
The cold cases hadn’t turned out like Jack or Liddell or Chief Pope had hoped, or even imagined. But it was a result. Marlin Pope had resumed duties as Chief of Police, while Richard Dick made arrangements for his father’s cremation, although, in truth, Dick would not ascend the throne under either mayor. The case was closed, the dragons slain, the fair maiden—Reina—saved. Jack found her inside the mansion, tied in a chair and gagged. She had heard everything.
Richard Dick was never charged with any of the crimes Jack was investigating. He would never be Chief, but he was the next highest merit rank, which meant he could only be demoted for good cause. Like being charged with using a shell company to pay off a murder witness. But Jack would never be able to prove that Richard Dick knew Monarch Investments was used as hush money to cover up Max’s murder. Richard Dick’s weapon didn’t match the ballistics evidence of any of the murders. Dennis James had testified that Richard wasn’t directly involved in anything other than the fight at the cemetery and even then, the man apparently received worse injuries than he gave. The statute of limitations had run out on simple assault. If stupidity was a criminal charge, Richard would spend the rest of his life in some kind of institution. He had skated on criminal charges, but was still undergoing an internal affairs investigation for his role in the shoot-out at his father’s house. Richard had, in a fit of grief, blown Carl Needham’s head into the next county. Jack and Liddell hadn’t actually witnessed this, but they were standing right there when they heard a cannon boom and the next thing that you knew, Carl’s head was gone. Jack and Liddell would swear it was self-defense.
The only one left to be held accountable was Dennis James. He had taken part in covering up the murder of Maximillian Day, which was charged as conspiracy to commit murder after the fact because of his admitted conspiracy with Carl Needham. The difference between Richard and Dennis, as far as conspiracy went, is that James knew Needham had committed the murder. It wasn’t proven that Richard knew who had killed Max. After a few days in jail, Dennis James gave everyone up, including himself and his drug supplier. He would also clear up the arson and murders by giving a statement against Carl Needham, who was deceased. So no one was arrested.
Ballistics confirmed Thomas Dick’s gun was the weapon that killed Harry Day. Max’s murder—and later, Olson’s murder—was attributed to the WASP belonging to Carl Needham, or a weapon of the same nature. Carl’s Desert Eagle was confirmed as the weapon that killed Mrs. Day, Dan Olson, shot at Jack, and shot up Reina’s vehicle. Jack got a warrant for the senator’s office and home and his desk calendar confirmed he was in Evansville when Mrs. Day and Olson were killed, and Reina Day was attacked. Crime scene collected hair, fingerprints, a syringe of SUX, and DNA evidence from Carl’s SUV that confirmed Reina had been in the backseat of Needham’s SUV.
Reina Day was treated by AMR at the scene and spent another night in Deaconess for a second concussion. Here was the happy ending. Sergeant Mattingly spent the night at Deaconess, watching over Reina after hearing what she’d been through. The fact that she’d had a loaded gun and had recorded her plan of killing Richard Dick was beside the point. No one had watched the video on Reina’s phone, or saw the handgun found in the car except Jack, Liddell, and Sergeant Mattingly. In fact, Mattingly had kept both of these items and it wouldn’t surprise Jack if they never made it into evidence. He didn’t care. Dick was alive and… well, still a dick. The bad guys were dead. Reina had, in some small part, brought about the avenging of the murders of her family. It was win-win. The really happy ending to this case was that Sergeant Mattingly and Reina Day had become close. Mattingly was divorced, Reina Day was divorced; maybe they would get married and then divorced like half of all America.
EPILOGUE
Three weeks after the shoot-out at the Not-Okay Dick Corral, as Liddell liked to call it, Jack and Katie sat on the covered deck at the back of the Blanchard homestead. Jack sipped Glenmorangie and Katie had a Diet Coke. She was already watching her diet. Marcie Blanchard prepared the picnic table with napkins, silverware, water glasses, side dishes, and a carafe of strong coffee. Bigfoot was playing the steaks on the grill like a concert pianist.
Jack’s mind was still working out the moral implications of his and Liddell’s part in all that had happened. He still didn’t feel that in good conscience he could have brought charges against Double Dick, and that was in direct conflict with his hatred for the man. Right was right and wrong was—whatever. In the end, no one died except the ones who deserved to. The killers had become the killed. He had scotch. Katie was beside him. Liddell, Marcie, and Janie were happy and healthy. Double Dick was leaving him be. What more could a man ask for?
Mattingly and Reina Day had already taken their relationship to the next step and Mattingly moved in with her. That meant Aldo had to pack up his happy-face Speedos and move out.
Jack was pulled out of his thoughts by Marcie nudging his arm. “I’m sorry, Marcie. I was in la-la land.”
Marcie smiled. “I swear, you two are in la-la land most of the time. I was asking how the new mayor is working out for you?”
“Same old, same old,” Jack said.
“I second that,” Liddell said from the grill.
“Is Cato going to order the Chief to release all of the case file to Channel Six?”
Channel 6’s legal department was claiming the case files were public record and under the Freedom of Information Act, they were taking legal action against the police department and specifically Chief Pope, Liddell Blanchard, and Jack Murphy. Jack was proud of Chief Pope when he told Channel 6 to “Bite me.”
“I don’t think we can find the case files,” Jack answered. In fact, he knew all of the files and all of the evidence were still in the war room. It had been lost for thirty-seven years. It could stay lost.
Liddell came onto the covered deck with a platter full of steaming New York strip steaks.
“It’s on the news, pod’na. Chief Pope is having a news conference tomorrow morning and Reina will be there. She’ll get her day in front of the cameras after all.”
“I know. Claudine Setera hasn’t stopped calling me all week,” Jack said.
“She’s writing a book,” Liddell said.
“Who is?”
“Reina is cowriting a book with Claudine. Everyone writes books these days. She’s going to expose the corruption in the police department and trash the city government for allowing it to continue,” Liddell said.
“Continue?” Jack said. “Jesus!” And after we took pity on her. Murphy’s Law said: No good deed will go unpunished. He just hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite them.
Katie asked, “What will the book say about you two?”
“You can ask her yourself,” Liddell said and nodded toward the back door of the house.
“I knocked and no one answered,” Claudine said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“You didn’t tell me she was invited, or I would have worn my knife-proof vest,” Jack said.
Claudine was
wearing a red dress with a slit up the side to her thigh and the neckline plunged to her navel. She was the only person Jack knew who would dress like she was at the Academy Awards to attend a backyard barbecue. Well, maybe Captain Franklin would as well. He imagined when the man was born he was given a little black suit and a birth certificate. And speaking of the devil, the man who came through the door right behind Claudine bore a suspicious resemblance to—
“Hello, Captain,” Jack said. “Want some scotch?”
Claudine said, “I’m sorry, I just came from another event downtown. Mayor Cato is taking bows for the case your husbands just solved.”
“Of course she is,” Marcie said. “That weasel.”
Jack poured a paper cup with scotch and was handing it to Captain Franklin when Chief Pope came out of the door.
Pope asked, “So what are your plans, Jack?”
“I plan to get drunk, Chief,” Jack said.
“You got another glass?” Pope asked.
“Real men drink from paper cups,” Jack said. He’d already had two doubles. He filled another cup and handed it to Pope. Jack took a swig of his scotch and held the paper cup out in a toast. “Here’s to the new weasel. May she be as bad as the last one.”
Marcie handed Claudine a Solo cup of Diet Coke. Liddell picked up a beer. They all toasted.
Claudine downed her Coke and said, “Can I have some of that scotch, Jack?”
“You don’t have to try and buddy up any more, Claudine. You got the whole damn exclusive story.” Jack tipped a quarter-inch of amber liquid in her Solo cup.
“That’s just like you,” Claudine said. She took the bottle from him and poured another two fingers in her cup, took a hefty sip, and said, “You drink this rotgut?” She surprised him with her knowledge of single-malt Scotch whiskey and they argued which was the best.
Liddell interrupted and said, “Dig in, folks.”
He made a plate for Marcie and a smaller bowl of mac and cheese for little Janie, who was getting sleepy. She stuck her hands in the bowl and rubbed the sticky cheese in her hair.
Marcie said, “I think someone needs changing and a nap.”
Jack held his steak up on a fork. “My steak’s still walking, Bigfoot. Did you kill it first?”
“Bite me, pod’na.”
“I’m just kidding. I’d rather bite this,” Jack said and cut into the steak, which was perfect, as usual. “If Marcie comes to her senses and divorces you, Bigfoot, you can come live with us.”
“Are you hitting on me, pod’na? That’s sexual harassment.”
The back door opened again and Jack almost choked on his drink.
“Sorry I’m late,” Deputy Chief Richard Dick said and everyone’s attention turned to Jack.
Jack could tell Liddell wasn’t surprised at all. This was a setup.
Dick was wearing blue jeans and a knit shirt with his shiny Corfam dress shoes. He was holding out a brown paper bag, twisted around the top of what could only be a bottle of liquor.
“Macallan twenty-five-year-old,” Dick said, holding the bag out to Jack. “I heard this is your preference.”
Jack opened the bag and indeed it was Macallan, twenty-five-year-old, thousand-dollar-a-bottle scotch. He said, “You don’t drink this stuff, Deputy Chief. You bow down and worship it. You didn’t have to do this.”
“You’re right,” Dick said, straight-faced. “I really can’t stay. I have a meeting with Benet Cato.”
Jack could see the man was as uncomfortable as he was.
Katie quickly came over and held a hand out. “I’m Katie. Jack’s wife.”
Dick shook her hand and said, “I hear congratulations are in order, Mrs. Murphy?”
“Please call me Katie. Yes. That goes double,” she said, and immediately realized she’d maybe put her foot in her mouth. “I mean we’re getting married and I’m pregnant.”
Dick was silent a moment and said, “You may call me Richard and I’ll call you Katie.”
Chief Pope chimed in: “Katie, if you have a boy, don’t let him grow up to be like Jack.”
Dick actually smiled and Jack could swear Dick’s eye’s glowed red. But maybe that was the scotch.
Katie said, “We’ve picked out names: Little Jack for a boy, Jackie for a girl.”
We did what? “Little Jack”? Over my dead body.
“And I hope the baby will be exactly like my husband.”
Jack smiled at her. That’s my girl.
“Brave, honest, loyal, stubborn as a mule and ever-so modest. Well, maybe not exactly like Jack,” she said teasingly and everyone got a laugh, especially Devil Dick.
Traitor.
Without further ado, Dick said, “I’d better go. This meeting with the mayor is very important. Budget concerns and such.” He locked eyes with Jack and said, “Perhaps some policy changes. Transfers.”
That’s it for me. “Thanks for coming by. And thanks for this, Deputy Chief. Call me Jack.”
“Detective Murphy, mind where you park or you’ll pay a towing fee,” Dick said, but Jack thought he heard a note of playfulness. Or deep, rumbling laughter and the roar of flames.
With that said, Dick turned and left.
“Chief, I think he’s due for a psych evaluation,” Jack said. “I can’t be bribed.” I can.
“Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Jack,” Captain Franklin said.
Katie added, “Or a bottle of Macallan. I thought that was very nice of Richard.”
Richard? WTF?
Claudine interrupted the tender moment. “Open it and pass it around, Jack.”
Jack held the bottle against his chest. “Not by the hair of your chinny chin chin. This is a drink for adults.”
Captain Franklin said, “Ladies, I hate to be a buzzkill, but I need to talk to Jack and Liddell. Can we go into the kitchen?”
Jack put his empty Dixie Cup down, but held onto the Macallan and got up. They went in the kitchen and Franklin shut the door. He said, “I got a call from your FBI boss. You need to meet the director in my office first thing tomorrow morning.”
Franklin was referring to Assistant Deputy Director Toomey, FBI Joint Task Force—USOC—Unsolved Serial and Organized Crimes. The last case he and Liddell had been assigned to had taken Jack across the West to Arizona. Well, he went on his own authority, but Toomey had eventually approved it.
“What are we getting into this time, Captain?” Liddell asked.
“Are either of you claustrophobic?”
Sneak Peek
Don’t miss the next exciting Jack Murphy thriller by Rick Reed
THE FIERCEST ENEMY
Coming soon from Lyrical Underground, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.
Keep reading to enjoy an excerpt…
Chapter 1
He jerked awake in a pitch-black world. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and slid downward until his lower legs plunged into ice-cold water. He dug his elbows into the hard surface, pulled his knees up, and used the soles of his bare feet flat to stop. He was on his butt on an incline on a surface that was like sandpaper; grit and small sharp cinders. A headache pounded behind his eyes and he felt his grip on consciousness was tenuous at best. He lay still until the pounding eased up and he could think.
The skin on his elbows, palms of his hands, and soles of his feet felt raw, like he’d slid down a cheese shredder. But at least he was now on a surface that was warmer than the water below.
“Where the hell am I?” he muttered and twisted his head right and left. It was beyond pitch-black. He could see nothing. The effort made him nauseous and pain exploded behind his eyes and in the back of his skull. Must have fallen.
He vaguely remembered being in a bar, drinking tequila. “What have I done?” he asked aloud and his words reverberated, not quite an echo.
/> He was cold, but not freezing. He must be inside—somewhere. It was early February, bitterly cold, sometimes dipping into the single digits at night. He tried to think, but his skull ached, particularly behind his left ear. He gently touched the spot, felt a lump, and his fingers came away sticky. Did someone hit me?
He scooted away from the water and felt the cinders cutting into his feet and arms and palms, but the incline eased to more of a level surface. He tried to stand, but the nauseating dizziness washed over him and his legs buckled. He slid until he plunged into the icy water up to his thighs. The incline was even steeper in the pool of water. He put his heels down to push himself out, but it was slippery. He used his arms and elbows to drag himself back far enough to get out of the water. When he gained some traction, he crab-walked up the slope a short distance before his strength gave out. He lay on his back, panting with the effort. Fear hammered through him, matching the beat of his heart.
He spread his arms like a snow angel and felt the ground to each side. It was hard and slick and peppered with grit-like cinders. He realized he wasn’t wearing anything but his boxer shorts. He wrapped his arms across his chest and rubbed and shivered. He was wet, he was cold, his feet and legs were numb. He wanted to remember how he’d gotten here, but his head hurt too much to think.
“What the hell?” he said loudly. His voice bounced back to him. He’d been taking shallow breaths, but the effort of dragging himself had made him breathe more deeply. His nose tickled each time he inhaled and he felt a familiar itch begin in his lungs. He suddenly was sure he knew where he was, or at least what this place was. A cave. It had to be. He could smell the moisture, the earthy smell of undisturbed soil, the pool of water.
He tried not to breathe deep, fearing the tickle he felt was from spores or mold on the cave walls and he had a breathing condition. Not COPD, but close. His inhaler was in the pants he wasn’t wearing. To make matters worse, he had a touch of claustrophobia and that feeling of dread was beginning to kick in. He had to find his clothes and get out. Or just get out.