by Thomas Scott
“How did you ever become so wise, Delroy?”
Delroy just laughed and went back to work and Virgil thought: Bottom line? If you find yourself in need, seek out the advice of a Jamaican bartender.
17
The next morning on his way to work, with little forethought, Virgil turned into the entrance of the cemetery where his mother was buried. He wound his way around the perimeter road and parked his truck on the service pathway next to her burial plot. A black Crown Victoria sat on the road a few yards ahead of him, its parking lights on, the engine idling. Virgil got out of his truck and walked over to his mother’s gravesite. What he saw when he got there stopped him in his tracks.
Murton Wheeler stood by the grave, a single flower clutched in his right hand. Virgil gave it a moment, then walked up behind him as Murton placed the flower on top of her tombstone. “I always loved your mom, Jonesy. You know that, don’t you? She was the mom I never had. Remember how she cried when we got back from sand-land? She hugged me like I was her own then kissed me on both cheeks and once on the lips, just like she did with you.”
“I remember her crying even harder when you disappeared. You broke her heart, Murt.”
A morning wind blew hard through the cemetery and the flower Murt had placed on top of her tombstone fell off the back. He retrieved it, this time placing it on the ground in front of her marker and used his fingers to half bury the stem in the ground to hold it in place. When he stood, he looked at Virgil and said, “There are things you don’t know, Jonesy. Sometimes things go a certain way and you end up someplace you never knew existed and you see things that are hard to forget.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Murton?”
“I’m talking about trying to figure some things out, that’s all.” He turned a full circle and looked across the cemetery. “Did you know I was here the day you buried your mom? You didn’t, did you? I can tell by the look on your face. I wanted to talk to you then, but I knew how that would turn out.”
“Maybe not,” Virgil said, though he thought Murton was probably right. “Who were those men looking for you last night at the bar? Why did you leave?”
“You talked to Pate at his church, didn’t you?” he said. “I know you did because I saw you there.”
Before Virgil could respond, the corner of his mother’s tombstone seemed to fragment, the granite exploding outward just as a distant gunshot echoed through the trees. Murton pushed Virgil to the ground where he landed face first in the grass. By the time he’d cleared his eyes of dirt and debris, Murton was already at his car. Virgil started to run after him, but then simply stopped and watched him go. There were no other shots fired, and the shooter was nowhere in sight.
The damage to the tombstone was minimal. In fact, Virgil thought, given the nature of the design, no one would probably notice the chipped piece missing from the corner unless they were specifically looking for it. A casual glance would reveal what looked like nothing more than a clean spot, as if someone had started to clean away a year’s worth of grime then given up. Nevertheless, he would have to file a report of the gunshot, both with his department and the city. He stopped at the cemetery office building, more as a courtesy than anything else and informed the lone worker of the incident. When he showed him his badge and informed him of the incident that had just occurred, the attendant seemed completely underwhelmed by the entire situation.
“Did you happen to notice a black Crown Victoria enter the grounds before I arrived?”
“I didn’t see you arrive, so I don’t know if it was before or after,” he said.
“I think you’ve misinterpreted my question. I’m not asking if you saw the car before or after, I’m asking if you saw it at all.”
He rolled his eyes the way young people do when forced to participate in a conversation they want no part of. “There’s a form you can fill out if you want to report any type of vandalism to a grave site,” he said. “But the cemetery is only responsible for the grounds. Any damage to the marker is your own responsibility. It says so in your contract. I saw the Crown Vic a few minutes ago when it left. If they’re friends of yours the next time you see them you might want to mention the speed limit around here is five miles per hour. But you’re a cop right? I guess you’d know that already.”
Virgil looked at him without saying anything, and after a few seconds of silence the attendant asked if he wanted the form or not. Virgil told him no and walked out the door.
When Virgil got to his office there was a note from Cora taped to the door with instructions to see her when he got in. He opened the door, tossed his jacket on the chair and started back out, but his desk phone rang so he turned around and picked up the receiver.
Bradley Pearson, the governor’s aide. “Do you mind explaining to me what in the hell is going on over there?”
“Hello, Bradley. I’m not sure I understand the nature of your question.”
“Then try this. The governor does not appreciate agents from the FBI questioning him in a public setting about a case that you’re supposed to be handling for him.”
Pearson had a way of making something sound completely different than it actually was. His choice of words and the manner in which he spoke suggested Virgil was, at the very least, doing a personal favor for the governor, and at most, covering something up for him and his office. “Let me see if I can clear something up for you, Bradley. I work for the state. I am not handling anything for the governor. The agent you’re talking about is named Gibson, right? He rolled on a bomb threat that turned up bust yesterday and tried to tell me I was interfering with a federal investigation. If he complained to the governor, that’s your problem, not mine. Anything else?”
“Yeah, Jonesy, there is something else. Who the hell is Murton Wheeler?”
Virgil almost answered, but he instead hung the phone up gently and walked over to Cora’s office. It was only ten thirty in the morning.
When he walked in she had Bradley Pearson on speaker, and he was shouting into the phone about how Virgil had just hung up on him. Cora let him go on for a few minutes, waving Virgil into one of the chairs in front of her desk. When his rant got old and repetitive, Cora interrupted him and said, “Listen to me you pathetic little piss-pot, the governor and I go back further than you and he ever will. Much further. In fact, I knew him when you were still in diapers, so hear me when I say this. If you ever call up one of my people and question their tactics, loyalties, or methods of operation again, I will personally see to it that the next political position you hold will be cleaning out the congressional toilets. If you don’t think I’ve got the juice to pull it off then pick up the phone and call me back.” Then for the second time in less than five minutes someone hung up on Bradley Pearson.
If you have a boss like Cora LaRue, Virgil thought, going to work in the morning wasn’t too difficult at all.
She puffed out her cheeks, then said, “So Jones-man, where are we? I can take care of Pearson, but sooner or later the governor himself is going to come calling.”
Virgil sat down and spent the next thirty minutes explaining his relationship with Murton, how they were raised together, how they fought together in the war, their falling out, his recent visit to the bar and cemetery, the interviews with Amanda and Samuel Pate, and his talk with Amy Frechette. Thirty minutes later, after he’d finished, she asked the most basic of questions. “So what now?”
“I hate to say it.”
“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 to a gathering at their church this Saturday. I think I might go and see what I can see, though it’s probably a waste of time.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You know how these things work. G
et the warrants cut on Wheeler anyway.”
“I just don’t think Murton is involved in the way it seems.”
“It’s not a request, Jonesy. Get it done.”
Virgil wanted to argue, but he knew she was right.
Sorry, Mom, he thought.
Virgil 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, Jerry Burns, Rhonda Rhodes, and Elle Richardson. But he had a difficult time concentrating, his thoughts bouncing back and forth between his growing feelings for Sandy and his sudden rekindled loyalty to his lifelong friend, Murton Wheeler, whom Virgil felt he was about to betray. He picked up the phone and called Cora in her office. “Got a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Virgil walked into her office and laid it out. “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 work for Pate. Did 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 at your bar about Wheeler. Pate’s guys,” she said. She tapped the pen harder and faster on her blotter.
“Mine too.” Virgil looked at the pen and the little ink marks it made on the desk pad. “Would you mind not doing that, please?”
She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows at him. Virgil looked down for a moment, then raised his hands, palms out. 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?”
“No. I’m not saying that at all,” Virgil said, but he let his eyes fall away from hers when he 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. 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,” Virgil said, but he regretted the lie as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
“So what was in the safe deposit box then? I didn’t see that in your report.” When Virgil didn’t answer her question, she tried another. “So what is it, exactly, that you want to do?”
Virgil told her and when he finished she gave her pen a little rat-a-tat-tat on the blotter, winked at him and said, “So let’s 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 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 and had an attitude consistent with someone who carried a short man complex around in his hip pocket. He took his job seriously and his scotch neat.
When they walked into his office he greeted them from behind his desk without standing up. His shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows and Virgil saw him peek at his watch as he motioned them to the chairs in front of his desk. Twenty minutes later they’d laid it out for him.
“It’s not enough. Surely you know that. Cora, you told him, right? It’s not enough.”
“It’s where the answers are,” Virgil said. “But Pate’s not talking. If we can get a look at his books—”
Elliott interrupted him. “Have you served the warrant on this Wheeler fellow yet?”
“Not yet.”
“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “Wheeler 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, save the run-ins you’ve had with him. So for reasons you’ve yet to explain, you want to sit on the arrest and search warrants of a convicted felon and instead 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,” Virgil said. “Why would he want to kill Dugan?”
“That’s a great question, Jonesy,” Elliott said. “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 blowing at the moment,” 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 cannot 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 Wheeler and work your case from that angle. If he’s not involved he’s got nothing to fear. But he might have the exact information we need to move on Pate. One step at a time, Jonesy.” After a moment he looked at Cora and said, “Are you free for dinner tonight?”
Late that night the phone next to Virgil’s bed rang just as he was about to fall asleep.
“You’ve got your warrant for Pate. One for the office and one for the house.”
“What? Cora? Say that again, will you please?”
“I said you’ve got your warrants for Pate.”
Virgil thought her words were slightly over-enunciated yet slurred and it reminded him of his days on patrol when he’d 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 like a young girl. “Let’s just say my powers of persuasion are still as good as they ever were.”
Among other things, Virgil thought.
“What was that?” she said.
“I didn’t say anything. I think the connection is bad. 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 him.
Out of the chute?
Virgil looked at the caller ID. It read Elliott, Preston. It was just after one-thirty in the morning.
18
The next morning, Saturday at ten o’clock, Virgil and Sandy were to meet at the Pate Ministries complex. When he turned in, Virgil saw her state car. She’d beat him there. He looked at his watch and discovered he was about ten minutes late. He had a search warrant for the complex tucked inside his jacket pocket. The lobby of the church had been converted from the wide-open space Virgil had witnessed on his 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 image being displayed prior to the screening of tomorrow’s broadcast was a closed circuit view of the enclosed area where Virgil now stood. There were about twenty to twenty-five people scattered about the area, some seated in padded folding chairs that 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 that were covered with white linen cloths and set with dishes and flatware.