The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  “Mmm, Murton. Excellent.”

  Ron Miles walked down the hall, turned the corner and stepped into Becky’s office. She was on the phone, but had just hung up as he walked in. He heard her say, ‘excellent.’ He sat down and pulled one of the crime scene photos from a manila folder. “How are you with puzzles, Becky?”

  “Hmm, not too good, really. Why?”

  “I thought that was sort of your thing.”

  She rolled her eyes without trying to hide it. “I’m a researcher, Ron, not a mystery solver. That’s more of your job, unless of course, you’re trying to offer me a promotion. Are you?”

  “Afraid not.” He handed her the photo—the one with the series of numbers written in blood from Pope’s apartment—and let her look at it a moment. “What you’re holding is a copy of a photo from the crime scene. It looks like the victim was trying to tell somebody something. It’s Pope’s blood.”

  Becky looked at the photo for a few more seconds and shrugged before she held it back out to Ron.

  “Keep it. I want you to spend some time with it. See if you can figure out what it means.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Research it, I guess.”

  Becky thought about that for a minute. “You’re positive that it’s the victim’s blood?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just seems like a logical question. Here’s something, though. If you don’t have a body, how do you know that the victim was the one who wrote the message?”

  “If you look closely at the photo, you can see that in a number of places in the message the victim’s fingerprints are visible. We matched them to his other prints in the apartment. It’s his blood and he was the one who wrote the message. But that’s a good question, Becky. Maybe we should promote you.”

  “Could I just have a raise instead?”

  “No, but I can get you overtime if you get started on this right away.”

  “Excellent.”

  17

  The next morning Virgil slept late and by the time he was up, Sandy had already left for work. He felt good. The drugs were out of his system, the buzzing in his head was gone, his leg didn’t hurt and his friends—including his girl—had once again overlooked his inadequacies and placed their love and affection for him over the hurt he had managed to inflict on them.

  He made himself a glass of juice and then walked down the slope of the backyard and over to the pond. He sat in one of the chairs near the edge of the water and tried without success to focus on things other than the Pope family and how, like it or not, he remained connected to their grief beyond the boundaries of casual circumstance. It had been over twenty years since he’d shot and killed James Pope and no matter how often he thought back on that day, Virgil was always surprised at his own lack of recollection regarding the specifics of the only man he’d ever killed in the line of duty as a police officer. He could not remember what James Pope looked like, how tall he was, or even the color of his hair or eyes. While he knew the basic facts of that day, he didn’t know what kind of man Pope was, what his childhood may have been like, or what events he may have endured in life that ultimately led to his death by Virgil’s own hand.

  The limitations regarding matters of recollection were not due to age or simple forgetfulness. They were due to a lack of concentration. Virgil had positioned his chair with purpose, near the water’s edge, his back to the willow tree. The sky had turned cloudy and dark with the possibility of a summer rain shower and the longer he sat by the pond, his mood began to darken as well. He refused to look at the willow tree, not out of mulishness, but fear. He was afraid that the visions he’d experienced of his father and the conversations between them had not been real…nothing more than a product of his chemically altered imagination. He’d told Sandy that his fear of being free of the medication meant facing the possibility that he would never again see or speak with his father. The sagacity of her answer was something Virgil wasn’t ready to address. Regardless, he had to ask himself, was she right? If he never saw or spoke to his dad again, did that mean he had never really been there at all? Or did it mean that he had always been there and the medication had somehow enabled him to communicate with his father outside the boundaries that define the laws of science and mortality? Neither answer seemed acceptable.

  Virgil also had to consider that regardless of the answers he sought surrounding his father, he had participated in a tradeoff of sorts. Thanks to Dr. Bell and his treatment plan, the physical ill-effects and withdrawal symptoms normally associated with the complete and total cessation of the most powerful narcotics known to man were negligible. Virgil was not anxious or depressed or physically sick in any way. But he was disheartened. Was the disheartenment his cross to bear? He’d done what everyone—even his dead father—had asked. He was off the pills, but it seemed like that decision had come with a hefty price tag, one steeped with regret. Was this what addiction looked like?

  No matter the questions or lack of any reasonable answers, Virgil ultimately decided that pretending like the willow tree was not behind him was a childish and disrespectful way to behave. The people he love had planted the tree with his father’s bloodied shirt at the bottom of the hole, not just for Virgil, but for Mason as well. Did the fact that Virgil could no longer communicate with him detract from any of that? Answer: No.

  Virgil stood from his chair and moved over to the willow tree. He walked a complete circle around it, then stepped under the branches and wrapped his hands around the trunk. Delroy had told him that the blood of his father would flow through the tree just like it did his own heart. Perhaps that was the answer. Maybe he hadn’t been speaking with his father at all, but in a very real way, he’d been speaking with himself.

  Yesterday Nichole Pope had said something that in the moment Virgil hadn’t given much thought. She said that she was the sum of two parts that did not fit together. When she asked him if he knew what that was like, Virgil truthfully told her he did not. He was the sum of two parts that had fit well together…the sum of two people who had loved him more than anything. And even though they were both gone now, they still lived on because of his existence. Did he need a talking tree as a monument to their legacy? Virgil thought not, but he also realized that there was nothing wrong with it either, so long as he didn’t put too much stock in its meaning and managed to keep his priorities straight.

  The struggle that he had forced Sandy to endure was almost unforgivable and something he wasn’t proud of. He had an idea though, one that he thought might make up for everything he’d done wrong and prove once and for all that they were meant to be together forever.

  Virgil still had his hands wrapped around the trunk of the tree. He leaned his forehead against the smooth green bark and closed his eyes. “Are you there?” he said, his voice soft and quiet. When the response didn’t come, he walked away from the tree, got in his truck and drove downtown…but not to the bar.

  Late in the day he turned back into the drive. The ring he’d picked out was elegant and tasteful, at least he thought so. It certainly had an elegant price tag. It was a one-and-a-half carat diamond solitaire, set in white gold. He had also stopped and bought a box of Sandy’s favorite chocolates from the Fannie May store. He asked the clerk if she would gift-wrap his purchase, but before she did, Virgil removed a few pieces of candy and put the ring front and center inside the box. When the clerk saw what was going on she shouted to the other employees who all gathered round to help and fuss and make sure that the box looked its absolute best. They also peppered him with questions to the point where it felt like he was under interrogation. By the time they were finished Virgil had received three wishes of luck, two rather stern warnings about how easy it is to break a woman’s heart and—interestingly enough—one offer of ‘If she says no…’

  Sandy’s car was parked by the garage, so Virgil knew she was home. He had no real discernible plan of action, thinking it best to sim
ply let the evening unfold naturally. He had the woman of his dreams alone with him in his house, an engagement ring hidden in a box of chocolates and the most important question in the world on his mind. What could possibly go wrong?

  As it turned out…plenty.

  He found Sandy in the bedroom packing a suitcase. He set the box of chocolates on the dresser next to the bedroom door. “Hey. What’s going on?”

  “Hi, baby. Guess what?”

  Virgil looked at the suitcase. “You’ve decided to update your status on Facebook?”

  She laughed. “Fat chance, Mister. I’m going to Chicago.”

  “Chicago? What for?”

  “The director of the academy was supposed to go up there with the governor. They’re both giving speeches at the national law enforcement conference…well, they both were going to, anyway. My boss had some sort of family emergency and I got tapped to take his place. The governor is flying up on the state plane so I get to ride along. Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Virgil said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You and the guy who fired me flying to Chicago together. The epitome of cool.”

  “Virgil…”

  “Ah, I’m sorry.”

  Sandy walked over and kissed him. “You miss me already, don’t you?”

  “I do. Listen, are you sure you’re up to it? The travel? I know you haven’t been feeling too well.”

  “I’ve just been a little run down lately and I haven’t been sleeping very well either, but I’ll be okay. Besides, I’m not going on a world tour. I’m fine.”

  “You are fine,” he said and then kissed her back. “How long are you going to be gone?”

  “Just a few days. I’ll be back Sunday night. You could come with us, you know.”

  Virgil laughed. “No thanks. Don’t think I’d be very welcome on the plane.”

  “We could always drive up together instead. Three hours from now we’d have a hotel room to ourselves and our imaginations to keep us busy.”

  “I don’t need my imagination when I’m with you.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re sweet. Hey, speaking of sweet, did you get me a box of candy?” She started to move toward the dresser but Virgil cut her off. He grabbed the box and held it behind his back.

  “Yes, I did, but now I’m going to make you wait to eat them until you get back.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair.”

  “That’s the breaks.”

  “Come on, Virgil, come with me to Chicago. We can eat the chocolate in bed together.” She gave him an eyebrow wiggle.

  Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea, Virgil thought. A couple of days in a different city and a marriage proposal in a hotel room. He bounced the idea back and forth for a few seconds, but in the end went with his gut.

  “I really can’t. Murton’s got me working on something with him. As a matter of fact, it looks like we’re going to be working together.”

  “You mean besides the bar, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” He tried Murton’s line on her. “Wheeler and Jones Investigations. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Virgil thought he might have unintentionally overemphasized the word ring.

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  “I’d like to keep my hand in it…the work. It’s interesting to me. It always has been. I love the bar, but day in and day out I think it’d drive me crazy.”

  “Your dad seemed happy doing it.”

  “He was. But he’d also put his time in as a cop. When we bought the bar he was ready for a change. I’m not sure I am. At least not yet. I just don’t feel like I should be done yet.”

  “What’s the matter Virgil?”

  “Ah, nothing. Just feeling sort of sorry for myself, I guess. I was hoping for a nice romantic evening with you.”

  “How about a nice romantic ride to the airport?”

  “You bet. When do you have to go?”

  Sandy zipped the suitcase closed. “Now would be good.”

  Virgil set the box of chocolates back on the dresser. Sandy eyed it for a moment, but didn’t say anything. “Hey maybe we should have a party Sunday afternoon when you get back. Have everybody over. How does that sound?”

  “Sure,” Sandy said. “Would you carry my suitcase for me?” She walked out of the bedroom and never gave the box of chocolates a second look.

  Virgil started the truck and they were about halfway down the drive when Sandy said, “Oops. Back up. I almost forgot my purse.”

  He hit the brakes. “Wow. That wouldn’t have been good.” He backed up to the door and Sandy ran inside. When she came back out, she had her purse over her shoulder. She dropped it on the floor by her feet, buckled her belt and said, “Okay. Let’s roll.”

  “You know, when you get back, I feel like maybe we should talk some stuff through.”

  “Like what?”

  Virgil spent the rest of the ride to the airport telling her what happened by the willow tree earlier in the day and more importantly, how he felt about it.

  “I think what Delroy said is true, Virgil. It’s not your leg that hurts. It’s your heart. People die. I know how much you loved your father and based on all the stories you’ve told me, I know you feel the same way about your mom and your grandfather. Physically, they’re gone, but like you said, they do live on through you. You should be proud of that.”

  He turned the truck into the parking lot of the airport’s Fixed Base Operations building. “I am. I just miss them. Sometimes I think I miss them too much. Like it’s not healthy or something…like I have trouble letting things go. I’ve been having conversations with my dead father and I’ll tell you something, I still don’t know if it was real or not.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Bell about it.”

  Virgil barked out a laugh. “Now there’s an idea. He’d probably prescribe an extra week of coffee enemas. No thanks.” A tall chain-link fence separated the parking lot from the tarmac, the state plane sitting on the ramp. One of the pilots stood next to the air-stair door as the other followed the governor out to the aircraft.

  “We’ll talk about it, Virgil. We will. But I think you’re fine. Sometimes you worry too much. If you’re feeling sad about your dad, go ahead and let yourself feel it. Keep it bottled up though and you’ll never get past it.” She picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. Virgil started to get out with her, but she pulled him over and kissed him long and hard. “I can get the bag. I think the pilots have to escort me out to the plane anyway. I love you, Virgil Jones. See you on Sunday.”

  Virgil thought about what was going to happen when Sandy came home, how they were going to take the first step of so many that were in front of them now. “I love you too, Small.”

  After Sandy went inside the FBO building that gave access to the tarmac, Virgil turned the truck off and walked over toward the fence so he could wave good-bye to her. The state’s plane was a small twin-engine jet—Virgil had no idea of the make or model because he knew nothing about aircraft—parked about forty yards away. The captain had already started the right engine, the noise a little louder than Virgil expected. The copilot walked Sandy over to the aircraft and then stood next to the steps, her bag in his hand as she climbed the stairs. What happened next was something so shocking Virgil was momentarily frozen in place and unable to respond.

  When Sandy got to the top of the steps, she turned around to face him, then reached into her purse and pulled out the gift-wrapped box of chocolates. She held the box above her head the way a professional athlete would after scoring the winning points of a championship game. Then she gave Virgil an evil grin along with the thumbs up sign and disappeared into the aircraft as the co-pilot shut the door behind them.

  Virgil stood there with his jaw slack and his fingers interwoven through the small gaps in the fence as the blast from the aircraft’s engines peppered him with grit, certain he held the sole distinction of being the only guy on the planet who was about to propose to his girlfriend without bein
g present. Way to go, Jonesy.

  Sandy said hello to the governor, set her purse and the box of chocolates on one of the empty seats and buckled up. She looked out the window to wave at Virgil, but the aircraft had already turned and it was impossible to see him.

  “How’s he holding up?” McConnell asked, his voice louder than normal so he could be heard over the sound of the jet’s engines.

  Sandy pressed her lips together. “He’s off the pills, Governor. That’s the main thing. He’s not too happy with you right now, if we’re going to be honest with each other.” There was no animosity or nastiness in her voice, she just threw her statement out there for what it was—a matter of fact.

  “Wasn’t an easy decision,” the governor said, sans nastiness himself. “But we had to do something, Sandy, you know that. I can tell you this…it damn sure wasn’t personal, no matter what he thinks and I sort of believe that he does think it was personal, but it wasn’t. That business with my daughter from before? It was horrid, the entire thing. But it had nothing to do with my decision to name a new lead detective to the MCU. In fact, it wasn’t even my idea. It was Pearson.”

  “He always seems to be the political scapegoat du jour, doesn’t he? How fortunate for you.” Maybe a little nastiness now.

  The governor held up his hands, palms out. “Sandy, I give you my word, if it were up to me—”

  “That’s just it, Governor. It is up to you.”

  They weren’t even off the ground yet.

  McConnell considered Sandy’s statement for a moment. “Tell you what…can we just table this for now? There are some changes coming down the line, things I won’t talk about right now, not with you or anyone, but things are never quite as bad as they seem, are they?” He looked at the seat next to Sandy. “Say, are those Fannie May chocolates? They’re my favorite.”