Читать книгу Time of Death - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 8

Barbara Jean met the potential client at the front door, introduced herself as Sanders’s assistant, and showed him down the hall to Griff’s study. The door stood wide open and Sanders sat behind the antique desk, a somber expression on his face. She knew Sanders for the kind-hearted, caring man he was. She knew that he liked his tea without lemon, cream, or sugar, that he preferred to sleep on the right side of the bed, that he had a dour sense of humor and that he enjoyed classical music. His favorite color was yellow, his favorite snack was Cheetos, and his favorite season was summer. However, even now, after being this man’s lover for nearly three years, she knew very little about the mysterious past he shared with his best friend and employer, Griffin Powell, and with the alluringly beautiful Dr. Yvette Meng. And that secretive past had made him the man he was today. Although they were on intimate terms, friends as well as lovers, she thought of him as Sanders, his surname the one used by all who knew him, even Griff and Yvette. In their private moments, she occasionally called him Damar, but in reality, Damar was a man she didn’t know, a man who belonged to a past that she could never share. A past that belonged to a dead wife and child.

Unlike Griff’s wife, Nicole, her dear friend, she accepted the fact that Sanders had secrets he chose not to share with her. But where she managed to curb her curiosity about the man she loved, about the years he had spent with Griff and Yvette, the three of them captives of a madman, Nic probed relentlessly into the past. Nic needed to know; Barbara Jean did not. It was enough for her that Sanders loved her now, and that he was loyal to the commitment they had made to each other. Perhaps it was because she had known from the very beginning that she was not the great love of Sanders’s life.

When she paused her wheelchair at the door, their guest waiting with her, Sanders rose from behind the desk. “Please come in, Mr. Chambless.”

The tall, broad-shouldered biracial athlete resembled his photographs, a handsome man with a toned body. But where in every picture Barbara Jean had seen of him, he’d been smiling, today he looked as if he might never smile again. Grief hung on his shoulders like a heavy shroud. The man had lost his wife only a month ago.

When Tagg Chambless entered the study and strode across the room, Sanders came out from behind the desk and met him, his hand extended. Sanders was much shorter than the six-five former NFL star, but equally impressive in his own way. The first time she saw Sanders, she had thought he looked like Yul Brynner, the exotically handsome actor who had risen to stardom in the mid-twentieth century portraying the king of Siam in the Broadway production and later in the movie, The King and I. Same bald head. Same hot, dark eyes. Same regal, commanding manner.

“My lawyer, Robert Talbot, told me that the Powell Agency is the best money can buy,” Tagg said as he shook hands with Sanders. “Seems Bobby and your agency’s lawyer are old buddies.”

“Yes, that is my understanding,” Sanders said. “Camden Hendrix called me personally Saturday to set up this appointment today.”

“Yeah. And you might as well know up front that I wanted to talk to Griffin Powell himself about this and was told he was unavailable.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Powell are away on vacation.”

Tagg nodded. “So I get the number-two man instead.” He glanced back at Barbara Jean, who remained in the doorway. “What about Ms. Hughes?”

“Come on in, Barbara Jean.” Sanders motioned to her and then focused his gaze on Tagg. “Just as I am Mr. Powell’s associate and second in command when he and his wife are not available, Ms. Hughes is my associate and privy to everything that goes on at the Powell Agency.” When Tagg made no comment, Sanders indicated a chair near the fireplace. “Please, sit down.”

After Tagg took his seat, Sanders sat in the chair across from him. Barbara Jean entered the room and eased her wheelchair behind Sanders.

“I think Mr. Hendrix explained what I want,” Tagg said.

“He gave me the basic details—that your wife was murdered approximately one month ago, the police have done all they can and have no suspects in the case, and you want to hire the Powell Agency to do an independent investigation.”

Tagg leaned over, his shoulders slouching with weariness, and sank his large, clasped hands between his spread knees. With his gaze directed to the floor, he breathed in heavily and released a deep, tortured sigh.

“You have no idea what it’s like to see your wife’s dead body lying in her own blood … to know that she suffered.” Tagg choked with emotion.

Barbara Jean’s gaze locked with Sanders’s and without saying a word she conveyed her concern. He closed his eyes for just for a second and she understood exactly what he was reliving in that dark moment and how the other man’s words had touched a sharp, painful chord in Sanders’s very private memories.

Sanders cleared his throat. “I’ll oversee the case personally, but I’ll put one of our top agents in charge of the investigation. His name is Holt Keinan. I called him in from Knoxville last night and he’s ready to return to Memphis with you today to handle things in the field. He will need your full cooperation. Do you understand?”

“He’ll have it,” Tagg assured Sanders.

“Whatever you share with us will go no further, even if you’ve been involved with anything illegal. But in order for us to do our job, we have to know about anything that might have the slightest bearing on your wife’s murder.”

“No one I’m associated with killed her. I’m sure of that. Nobody was out to get me through Hilary.”

“Nevertheless, we will be digging into your and your wife’s personal lives, past and present.”

Tagg clenched his teeth and nodded.

“The more you can tell us, the more time we can save investigating and having to find out things you could have told us.” Sanders paused, giving Tagg a chance to inject information into their conversation. He didn’t. Sanders continued. “You seem to think there’s no one in your life who posed a threat to you or your wife—what about someone in your wife’s life? Somebody from her past? Or someone—?”

“It’s no secret that for a while, when she was in her early twenties, Hilary went from being a Las Vegas showgirl to a star in several low-budget adult movies.”

“By adult you mean pornographic movies?”

“Yeah. Hilary was a beautiful woman. She had a great body. And she loved showing it off. She loved life … loved sex. When we met, she gave up the movie business and her agent was none too happy. This guy wore two hats, one as an agent and another as a producer of porno flicks. He told Hilary that she’d regret leaving him to marry me, that she’d miss the business and come back to him the first time she caught me in bed with another woman.”

“Did she?” Sanders asked.

When Tagg looked him in the eye, his gaze questioning, Sanders clarified. “Did she ever catch you with another woman?”

“From the day we married, there was never anyone else for either of us. It’s been that way for the past seven years.”

“Who was this guy, the agent-cum-producer?”

“Travis Dillard.”

“Did your wife have any contact with him over the past seven years or perhaps only recently?”

“No, none, not over the years or recently.”

“We will check into it, find out if there is any reason to think he might be involved.” Sanders glanced at Barbara Jean. “See if Holt is free to join us and then have coffee prepared and served in approximately twenty minutes.”

“Certainly.” Barbara Jean wheeled out of the room and headed straight for the kitchen. Holt would be there having a late breakfast. She had spoken to him less than fifteen minutes before Tagg Chambless’s arrival.

The moment Cam Hendrix had contacted Sanders to tell him about Hilary Chambless’s murder, she had known Sanders would agree to take the case. He identified with any man who had lost his wife in such a brutal way. And each time he became involved in a case such as this, he relived his own wife’s death at the hands of a monster.

Charles Wong placed the letter back in the envelope, tore the envelope into several pieces, and dumped the pieces into the kitchen wastebasket.

“We’re off,” his wife Lily called to him from the living room. “Don’t forget that you’re picking the girls up from school today.”

“I won’t forget,” he told her. “I’ll be there on time. Three o’clock sharp.”

“Oh, and Charlie, call me after the interview, okay? Good luck, babe.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

When he heard the front door slam, he released a loud huff as he poured himself another cup of coffee and opened the caramel crunch breakfast bar he had laid out on the counter after he had cleared the kids’ cereal bowls from the table. Right now, Lily was supporting the four of them—herself, him, and her twin daughters, Jenny and Jessy. Since he’d been laid off shortly before Christmas, more than three months ago, he had signed up for unemployment and become a househusband. He had gone on numerous job interviews; today’s interview was number twelve. Unfortunately, he wasn’t qualified for much. His last job had been at a local plant where he’d been a janitor. Today’s interview was for a job as a bagger at the grocery store two blocks from their duplex apartment.

When he’d met Lily three years ago, he had been on the verge of giving up, of taking an overdose or jumping off the nearest bridge. They had met at an AA meeting. He had never known anyone like her. For him, it had been love at first sight. She had survived a teenage pregnancy, a boyfriend who abused her, parents who abandoned her, and a drinking problem that had almost cost her custody of her girls. But she had turned her life around and had helped him do the same.

They had been married for a year, had a decent apartment, managed to survive on one paycheck, and were doing their best to be good parents. He adored Jenny and Jessy. Who wouldn’t? They were seven-year-old replicas of their mom. And they were calling him Daddy now. Their own father never had been a part of their lives.

Charlie sat down at the small kitchen table, ripped open the breakfast bar, took a bite, and then washed it down with coffee. When he had lost his job in December, he had believed that was the worst thing that could happen to him, but he’d been wrong. In early January, he had received the first letter. He had dismissed it as nothing more than a stupid prank and threw the letter away. Then the second letter, identical to the first, had arrived in February, right before Valentine’s Day. Even though that one had unnerved him, he had torn it up and tossed it in the garbage. As far as he knew, he didn’t have any enemies who hated him enough to want to see him dead.

Then Saturday, the third letter had arrived, another word-for-word replica of letter number two. He knew the message by heart.

Midnight is coming. Say your prayers. Ask for forgiveness. Get your affairs in order. You’re on the list. Be prepared. You don’t know when it will be your turn. Will you be the next to die?

For the past couple of days, he’d been thinking about what he should do. Lily had enough on her mind with her job as a waitress, the two girls, and their barely having enough money to make ends meet. The last thing she needed was to find out that someone was sending her husband death threats. If he went to the police, what could they do? Not a damn thing. And what could he do? He had no idea who had sent the letters. Even when he had ended up in the gutter—literally—a few years back, he hadn’t encountered anyone who’d want to kill him. All he could do was watch his back, be careful, and not take any chances. And as far as he knew, Lily and the girls were safe. The letters had not mentioned his wife and kids, so he hoped that meant that only he was in danger. But from whom? And why?

Maleah would have preferred dealing directly with Nic, but that wasn’t an option right now and she needed permission to take Lorie Hammonds’s case and use the Powell Agency’s resources to investigate. That meant contacting Sanders in order to get his approval. When she had called Griffin’s Rest earlier today, she had spoken to Barbara Jean.

“He’s in a meeting with a potential client. I’ll have him call you as soon as possible.”

That had been two and a half hours ago. If Nic had been there, she wouldn’t have kept Maleah waiting. But she and Sanders were not close friends, simply coworkers at the agency. It wasn’t that she disliked Sanders. Quite the contrary was true. She liked and respected Griff’s right-hand man, but she found his formal manners and his military bearing if not exactly intimidating then at the very least forbidding. From the first time she had taken her turn as head of security at Griffin’s Rest, a position that routinely rotated among agents, she had thought it odd and at the same time rather endearing that the solemn, austere Sanders and the sweet, gregarious Barbara Jean were a couple. It was obvious to everyone that she adored him and that he, in his own way, cared deeply for her.

It wasn’t until she and Nic had become close friends that Nic told her Sanders had, years ago, lost his wife and child. If Nic had known the particulars of the tragedy, she had not seen fit to share the information with Maleah. Sanders himself was as secretive about his past, if not more so, than Griff was; but Barbara Jean was an open book. Everyone who knew her knew she had been paralyzed in a devastating car accident and after many surgeries and years of physical therapy, she had been left a paraplegic. She considered herself lucky to have survived and found joy in her life every day. The topic she chose not to discuss, but that everyone at Powell’s was aware of, was the fact that her younger sister had been one of the many victims of the Beauty Queen Killer, who had also murdered the first wife of one of Griff’s best friends, Judd Walker.

Maleah was deep in thought—remembering the last time she had seen the Walkers, Judd and his new wife and their two young daughters—when the phone rang. She recognized the number immediately. Griffin’s Rest.

“Hello.”

“I received your message,” Sanders said.

“Then you know that I called to get your okay to take on a new client.”

“Lorie Hammonds is a friend of your brother’s wife. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Lorie and Cathy are best friends.”

“And Ms. Hammonds has received two letters threatening her life?”

“Yes.”

“Have you notified the local authorities?”

“I have. I personally spoke to Sheriff Mike Birkett last night.”

“And you believe that the situation warrants the Powell Agency becoming involved.”

“Yes. Pro bono. Ms. Hammonds is not a rich woman.”

“I see.”

Maleah could tell by the tone of Sanders’s voice that he was actually considering denying her request. “Look, I’m on vacation, but if you’ll give me an okay to take Lorie on as a client, I’ll work without pay for the duration of my time off from the agency.”

Silence.

Damn it, say something. But when he remained silent, she knew he was thinking about her proposition.

“Agreed,” Sanders told her. “You took time off to stay in Dunmore for two weeks, on a paid vacation. Use that time to begin the investigation, and if when your vacation comes to an end you have found evidence that Ms. Hammonds’s life is in danger, then Powell’s will pick up the tab for continuing the investigation.”

She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you. I assume this means that the agency’s resources are at my disposal?”

“Certainly. However, unless you can show me the necessity of additional agents becoming involved—”

“I don’t think Lorie needs a personal bodyguard at this point, but if she does, I’ll handle it.”

“Then feel free to proceed. And if while Griffin and Nicole are away, you require anything else, simply let me know.”

“Yes, thanks. I will.”

“Good day, Maleah,” Sanders said, ever the courteous if somewhat stern gentleman.

Lorie had changed clothes four times that morning. The routine of bathing, doing her hair, applying makeup, and dressing usually took about an hour, less if she hurried. But today it had taken her two hours. When she had put on the first outfit and checked herself in the mirror, all she had seen was how large her breasts looked in the clingy yellow cashmere sweater, a Christmas present from Cathy and Jack this past year. She certainly didn’t want Mike to accuse her of using her sexuality to gain attention or, God forbid, to entice any of his deputies. The second outfit had gone too far in the opposite direction, the long-sleeved, mid-calf-hemmed dress making her look as if she were trying to downplay her attractiveness. Her third attempt had been jeans, the legs tucked into black boots, and a hooded black rhinestone sweatshirt. Too youthful. Mike would think she was trying to look like a teenager. Finally, she had chosen a pair of charcoal dress slacks, a silvery gray silk blouse, and a simple black sweater.

When she walked into the sheriff’s department, all eyes turned toward her. What was wrong with these people? But she knew that, to a person, all of Mike’s employees either knew firsthand or had heard through local gossip about Mike and her, about their past relationship and the fact that Mike now despised her.

Her heart raced and moisture coated the palms of her hands. She was so nervous that you’d think she was a criminal who had been caught red-handed. Instead, she was the victim or at the very least, the potential victim.

A middle-aged female deputy, her brown hair cut short and styled in choppy disarray, approached Lorie, a noncommittal expression on her face, neither smiling nor frowning.

“Good morning, Ms. Hammonds. I’m Deputy Ladner. The sheriff has assigned me to take your statement.”

Lorie nodded and offered the woman a hesitant smile, which was not reciprocated. Instead the deputy said, “Come with me, please.”

As instructed, Lorie followed the woman to what she assumed was the deputy’s workstation. She pulled out a chair for Lorie and motioned for her to sit. Deputy Ladner sat behind her metal desk, picked up a pen and paper, and interrogated Lorie. Or at least that was how Lorie felt, as if she were being given the third degree. Five minutes later, apparently finished, the deputy handed the pen and file form to Lorie.

“If you’ll sign”—she tapped her finger on the dotted line—“right here, please.”

Lorie hurriedly read over the form, then signed it and laid it and the pen on the desk. She looked directly at the deputy. “Thank you.”

When she rose to her feet, the deputy did the same. “You’ll let us know if you receive another letter or a phone call or—”

“Yes, of course,” Lorie said. For all the good it will do me. This woman doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. She thinks I made the whole thing up. No doubt Mike told her to do her duty, but warned her not to take me seriously.

“Is Sheriff Birkett in his office?” Lorie asked.

“Uh … yes, I believe he is,” Deputy Ladner replied, “but … er … I’m sure he’s busy. Is there anything else I can do for you, Ms. Hammonds?”

Without replying, Lorie turned and walked away hurriedly, every step taking her closer to Mike’s closed office door. Just as she reached the half-glass door and could plainly see Mike sitting behind his desk, a cup of coffee in his hand, Deputy Ladner grasped Lorie’s arm.

She turned and glared at the other woman, who loosened her hold and then dropped her hand away.

“You can’t see the sheriff right now,” the deputy said.

Lorie glanced around the room and noted that to a person, everyone in the sheriff’s department was staring at the two of them. She smiled. “Why not? It’s obvious he isn’t busy.”

Before Deputy Ladner could do little more than clear her throat, Lorie watched while Mike put down his cup, stood up, and walked to the door.

When he opened the door, the deputy jumped back. “Sir, I told Ms. Hammonds that you were unavailable.”

“It’s all right, Lana. Ms. Hammonds doesn’t like to follow the rules. You may go now. I’ll handle this.”

Lana Ladner? The name certainly didn’t suit the plump, plain female deputy. The name was far too fancy for such an ordinary-looking woman.

When Lana walked away, Lorie flashed Mike with a lavish smile. Totally fake, of course.

“I take it that I’m what you intend to handle,” Lorie said.

Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her into his office, then closed the door behind him. “You wanted to see me. Here I am.”

“You’re really pissed about this, aren’t you?” When he cocked an eyebrow as if saying I-don’t-know-what-you-mean, she elaborated. “You don’t like my invading your territory, even with a valid complaint.”

Mike snorted.

“I know you don’t believe that I’m in any danger. You think I concocted those two death threats, don’t you?”

“One letter,” Mike corrected. “Maleah explained that you threw the first one away … if there was a first one.”

“You egotistical son of a bitch. You actually think that I’m so determined to get back into your life that I’d fake death threats.” She punched her index fingertip into his chest. “Get this straight.” She repeated the punching motion again and again as she said, “I got the message loud and clear. You don’t want me. You wish I had never come back to Dunmore. You think I’m poison. Fine. Now, listen up—I’m over you. Finally. I wouldn’t have you if you were served to me on a silver platter with a gold apple in your mouth.”

He stood there and stared at her, his blue-black eyes wide with surprise.

She lifted her finger from his chest and balled her hand into a tight fist. “Someone has sent me two letters telling me that I’m going to die. It may be somebody’s idea of a sick joke or it could be that out there somewhere there’s a crazy person who intends to kill me. So, do your job, Sheriff. I’m a tax-paying citizen of your county.”

Lorie turned and left his office, ignored the wide-eyed department personnel, and marched straight out the front door.