Murder on the Third Try Read online

  “Did you come up with any answers?”

  Aaron shrugged. “I guess it was a God thing, you know? Angie didn’t have her cell phone with her. God put me there to call 911.”

  “Okay.” James W. put his notebook back in his pocket, then offered a smile. “That’ll do it for now. Thanks for your time.”

  “Any time,” Aaron said.

  James W. headed toward his office, considering what he’d heard. It was a coincidence that Aaron was on the scene when Matt’s shooting occurred. As a law enforcement man, he didn’t believe in coincidences. But he was also a Christian, and he did believe in miracles.

  He sighed. Too bad his friend Matt Hayden wasn’t around. This would’ve made for a good discussion over a couple of beers at the Ice House.

  Chapter Five

  Know Your Enemy? Yeah, Right.

  Mike Hogan gritted his teeth as the gurney beneath him rumbled down the hallway. Despite the meds that helped with the nausea and dizziness, this motion was sending him back into a spin. That was the least of his problems, though.

  With the swelling on his face and eyes getting worse by the minute, he couldn’t see anything. At this moment he was being rolled down a public hospital corridor and he was completely incapable of doing anything to protect himself. Then another thought struck him. Even if he could see, he had no idea who was his friend and who was his foe.

  “We’re almost there,” said the technician at his side. The man’s voice was baritone, and Mike hoped the orderly was big enough in muscle and stature to protect him. Screw that. The guy might be Rutledge’s handpicked henchman. One squeeze of the neck and Mike was a dead man.

  That was the bottom line. Someone had tried to put a bullet through his skull. Mike couldn’t remember when, and he didn’t remember where, but he was pretty sure of the who. Retired Chief Howard Rutledge, formerly of the Miami Police Department, had found him. Even if the medical staff around him was legit, they were in as much danger as he. Rutledge had never cared about collateral damage.

  The gurney turned, and the technician began fumbling with the IV in Mike’s hand. “We’ll get you unhooked here, and then we’ll start your CAT scan.”

  Mike heard the movement of other people in the room. His pulse quickened. Were any of them here to kill him?

  The technician must’ve sensed Mike’s anxiety and assumed his patient was afraid of the test. “This won’t take long, and all you have to do is lie there. CAT scans are much easier than MRIs. No noise to speak of.”

  “When will I be able to see again?” Mike heard the fear in his voice but was unable to quell it. If he was going to be murdered, at least he wanted to see his assassin.

  Either the technician didn’t hear him or was schooled not to discuss patients’ symptoms. “Okay, we’re going to transfer you to the machine now.”

  Several strong hands grabbed hold of him, and he jerked away in panic. Any one of those hands could belong to his assassin.

  “Take it easy, Pastor,” the technician ordered.

  With that, Mike felt himself being lifted onto a flat cold surface. Hands gently moved his head over some sort of stabilizing pillow. The ambient noise of the room quieted. He must be in the machine, he figured. Well, whatever they were doing to him, he wished they’d hurry up and do it. And where the hell was Angie? They said they called her. Musta been hours ago.

  He wouldn’t feel safe until she was back by his side.

  ***

  After doing three hours of paperwork forced upon him by his secretary, James W. finally stood at Sarah’s desk with his completed assignments. “Payroll, warrant requests, affidavits and RFI’s. Completed. Now I’m headin’ up to Austin. Gotta see the Rangers about the preacher’s shooting. I won’t be back in the office until tomorrow.”

  “You talked with Jimmy Jr. yet?” Sarah asked.

  James W. shook his head. “Shoulda known you’d hear about that. I’ve left messages for him, but he hasn’t called me back. His secretary says he’s been in campaign mode all day.”

  “Here’s another rumor I’d like you to confirm.” Her slim face darkened. “Zach didn’t shoot the preacher?” Sarah had been married to Zach sixteen years ago, and that marriage had produced one offspring, their son, Tom. The boy was barely in kindergarten when the marriage had ended. Zach got custody—a fact no one in town understood and Sarah refused to discuss. As the years went by, Zach had turned Tom against his mother. She hadn’t spoken to her son in years.

  “That’s right.” He peered at her closely. “You okay?”

  “Never thought I’d live to see the day Zach didn’t hurt someone.” She straightened in her chair. “Any word on where my son is?”

  “No. To be honest, I haven’t been lookin’ for Tom.”

  “Don’t ask me, that’s for damned sure.” Her grim lips relaxed a little. “But I’m glad Zach didn’t kill Pastor Hayden. Maybe that’ll make things easier for me and Tom to at least speak to each other.”

  James W. nodded. “I’ll hope for that.”

  Sarah returned her attention to the stack of papers her boss had placed on her desk, then eyed him with suspicion. “Have you called your wife back yet? She’s rung at least three times.”

  James W. understood his secretary’s scrutiny. Elsbeth would be on a tear after this morning’s Dallas Daily News headline. He hadn’t picked up his wife’s cell phone calls, nor had he replied to her emails. A man could only handle so much at one time. James W. had no problems carrying out his responsibility as Wilks County’s chief law enforcement officer. Dealing with the force of nature known as Elsbeth Novak, however, was a completely different matter. “I’ll get in touch with her once I get to Austin.”

  Sarah settled into a glare. “You know she’s gonna come over here looking for you, right?”

  “And I ain’t gonna be here, am I?”

  There was a commotion at the broad stairway coming up from the lobby. “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” Elsbeth Novak’s bellow, a sound James W. often likened to an oncoming train’s thunder, echoed off the plaster walls and into the sheriff department’s bullpen. He winced.

  “You’d better go out the back,” Sarah said.

  “On my way,” James W. agreed, and hightailed it for the fire escape door.

  “You owe me,” Sarah called after him.

  The door shut just as the severely red, bulbous face of the sheriff’s wife came into view on the stairs. “Lord, help me,” Sarah whispered as Elsbeth topped the stairs and headed straight for her.

  ***

  Peter Pendergast sat in his cubicle at the Dallas Daily News, sipping his third cup of afternoon coffee, a pleased look on his egg-shaped face. He’d just hung up from talking with the head of circulation. The numbers coming in for today’s newspaper sales were up. The local canvasses indicated that his article on the dead body found in the backyard of the Wilks County Sheriff was responsible for the jump in sales.

  His phone rang, and he picked it up. “Pendergast.”

  “Mr. Lombardi wants to see you.” Peter recognized the dulcet tones of the distinctly shapely administrative assistant to the paper’s owner.

  “When?” he asked.

  “Now,” she said.

  He noted that she didn’t sound happy. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’ll tell him you’re on your way.” The line went dead.

  “Now what?” He headed for the open elevator, punched in the number for the top floor and glared at his reflection in the mirrored walls. With cat-like eyes, he studied the thin ginger hair that receded up his wrinkled forehead. He smoothed it back, in deference to his summons. Once again, Lombardi had found a way to make him feel like a kid being called to the principal’s office.

  Peter understood he had a reputation of being a slime ball reporter. He figured it took slime to find slime. Still he didn’t care for getting in hot water for reporting the slime. Especially when his story was true.

  Or mostly.

  The e
levator opened, and he walked into Lombardi’s reception area. The admin didn’t look up from her computer. “You’re to go right in,” she said. “Don’t bother knocking.”

  Jerry Lombardi was a good ole boy, the stuff of which Texas lore was written. In his seventies, he bore the pounds of too much fried chicken, the sallow skin of too much drink, and the formidable conviction that no man was his match. He stood at his penthouse window, staring out at the Dallas skyline. He waited a good long minute before turning around to acknowledge Pendergast’s presence. When he did, Peter saw a bull ready to charge.

  “As of this moment,” the older man growled, “you are no longer in Jimmy Novak’s gubernatorial press pool.”

  Peter shook his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “What?”

  “I had the privilege this morning of getting a phone call from a good friend of mine with the Texas Philanthropic Society.” Lombardi’s drawl was slow and menacing.

  Pendergast felt his heart drop into his stomach. “In Austin?” The Texas Philanthropic Society was a euphemism for the highly connected group of five known as the spine of Texas politics. Their “philanthropy” was to keep the great State of Texas...well...great. There wasn’t a smoke-filled Texas back room that wasn’t influenced by the group.

  “Hester Honeywell—you do know who that is, right?”

  Peter recognized this was a challenge. “The former rodeo barrel racer,” he said. “Beautiful woman. Even at her age.”

  “And powerful.” Lombardi nodded. “Hester said she had several concerns about your story on this morning’s front page.”

  Peter shrugged in an attempt at confidence. “I didn’t cement the dead girl’s body in the Sheriff’s backyard.”

  “I’ve read your article several times now. Quite frankly I’m disappointed in the tone you set regarding the incident.”

  Peter’s thin cheeks reddened. “I reported the truth.”

  “Gift wrapped in plenty of innuendo.” Lombardi glared. “You’re a news reporter, not an op-ed writer.”

  “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

  “Your tone insinuated that the sheriff was not forthcoming about the discovery of the dead girl. You left out the fact he called in the Texas Rangers immediately upon finding the victim’s remains. Which, by the way, were in the river behind his home—not in his backyard.”

  “I’ll clarify that in my follow-up.”

  “And what’s this business about trying to associate Jimmy Jr. with the victim? Wilks is a small town. They were bound to know each other.” Lombardi sat on the corner of his desk. “I think you’ve got it in for the gubernatorial candidate and this was your way of jacking up your readership.”

  “And yours.”

  “So, I get this call from Hester Honeywell. It so happens The Society is supporting Jimmy Jr.’s candidacy. They like Jimmy Jr., which means I like Jimmy Jr.”

  “Have you seen the sales figures for this morning? That was a story people wanted to read.”

  “Some people want to read all the tabloid crap that’s out there. Unfortunately for you, I don’t run a tabloid.” Lombardi crossed his arms over his chest. His look was lethal. “I want to know exactly who your sources are on this story, and what the hell you have against Sheriff Novak and his son.”

  “I’m in the process of—”

  “Process? Bullshit.” Lombardi picked up the paper and shook it. “You printed this crap in my paper. It’s a done deal. Sit your backside down and convince me not to fire you. Now!”

  Chapter Six

  Candid Camera

  Angie put her bag beside Matt’s bed, then pulled a chair into his cubicle. She sat down and studied his sleeping form. “Hi, honey. I’m back,” she whispered. “Nice digs,” she said, referring to the Neuro Patient Care Unit. She’d been informed by Matt’s nurse that this special unit was devoted strictly to patients with brain issues. Five curtained-off patient “rooms” horse-shoed around the central staff desk, which was directly in front of the unit’s entrance. Angie was happy to see such an imposing buffer between the patient cubicles and the door. From now on, Matt’s safety was her number one responsibility.

  She returned her attention back to Matt. His eyes were still squeezed so tight it looked like they might pop like giant zits. However, his nose and swollen cheeks, which for days had warred for space on his face, appeared to be shrinking back. A small clear plastic tube forked into his nostrils, and his lips were pale and cracked. She took a tube of Carmex from her purse and slowly ran the salve over his lips.

  A rustling noise behind her had her turning quickly around, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was Matt’s charge nurse, Joanne Frugoni, standing at the curtain.

  The pint-sized nurse smiled. “Settling in?”

  “It’s very . . . “Angie searched for the word. “. . . Clean.”

  Joanne laughed. “I should hope so.”

  Angie decided to get down to business. “Has my man here had many visitors?”

  “With that security officer out front, the medical staff barely gets in.”

  Angie had immediately appreciated the stern-looking retired cop James W. had hired. The well-muscled, balding man had made Angie show her driver’s license and sign in as he checked the list of people James W. had approved for entrance. He’d looked relieved to see her name, and the message beside it. Apparently, James W. had noted that the man could take a break once Angie arrived.

  Joanne pushed her computer cart into the cubicle and began her check of Matt’s IV and the other assorted tubes to which he was hooked. “Pastor got back about five minutes ago from a CAT scan Dr. Ryan ordered. He was exhausted.” The nurse pulled the handheld scanner from its perch on her cart, aimed it at the barcode imprinted on the hospital ID at Matt’s wrist, then scanned the IV bag she’d brought with her. She traded it out with the old one, then examined the various machines that monitored Matt’s progress. She nodded in satisfaction. “Looking good.” She packed up her cart. “Need anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  Joanne disappeared behind the curtain, and Angie returned her attention to Matt. She watched him breathe for a few moments, allowing the knowledge that he really was okay to soothe her frazzled nerves, then set her purse on her lap. Time to check my messages, she thought. She pulled out her cell phone. Then she heard the curtain being pulled back.

  “Forget something?” Angie looked up, expecting to see Joanne at the curtain.

  Instead, she stared straight into the face of a glaring, unkempt stranger. His graying, wiry hair needed to be combed almost as much as his jacket needed to be pressed. His face was streaked with freckles and wrinkles, suggesting he spent a great deal of time in the sun. But it was his hand, age-spotted and steady, poised at his suit’s lapel that had her full attention.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “The question, lady, is who are you?”

  His gravelly voice spoke to decades of smoking. He walked into the cubicle with an air of authority which instantly put her on alert. And his hand still looked like he was ready to pull a weapon out of a body holster at any minute.

  “Joanne!” Angie called, not caring if she woke every patient in the Neuro PCU.

  The man walked to the opposite side of Matt’s bed. “I asked you a question. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  “She’s the patient’s fiancée.” Joanne appeared at the curtain. “Who has full permission to be here. You don’t.”

  “You’re mistaken,” he said, turning to the feisty, albeit petite, nurse. “I have full authority in this matter.”

  “I don’t think so,” Joanne said, her voice firm. “Whoever you are, I’m going to call security.”

  “Please do,” the man said. “The sooner we get this straightened out, the sooner I can clear this room.” As the nurse left, he focused an angry glare on Angie. “So, you’re engaged to Pastor Matt Hayden, huh? Boy, are you in for a surprise.”

  Angie
refused to rise to the bait. “What do you mean you have full authority? Over what?”

  “Over Matt’s, shall we say, disposition?”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “I’ll ask a second time. Who are you?”

  The man sneered. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  “What makes you think you have any authority over Matt?” Angie demanded.

  “I’m a Federal agent, in charge of Matt’s . . . situation. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I want to see some sort of identification,” Angie said. Still holding her cell phone, she dropped her bag on the floor and stood. “Now.”

  “You’re not in any position to demand anything.”

  “I want to see your badge.” She stared him down.

  Slowly he shook his head. “No.”

  “Tell you what,” a male voice, deep and Texan, had both Angie and the man looking to see who was at the curtain’s edge.

  James W. stood there, uniformed and packing, one hand on his weapon, the other at his waist. “I’ll show you mine, and you will show me yours.”

  “Sheriff Novak. I believe you and I have met.”

  James W. squinted at the man. “You were at the preacher’s house last January. You said you were the father of Matt’s college roommate.”

  The smug man shrugged. “It was as good a story as any.” His gaze darted to the curtain.

  “If you’re looking for hospital security, I told the nurse I’d take care of things.” James W. stepped closer to the bed. “I think the little lady asked you for some identification. I’m telling you to get it out. Now.” As the man’s hand started toward his lapel pocket, James W. unstrapped his gun. “Just makin’ sure your ID is the only thing you’re reachin’ for.”

  Seeming to appreciate the sheriff’s determination, the man delicately removed his badge from his jacket.

  James W. took it. “Frank Ballard. Deputy,” he read out loud. “Federal Marshal Witness Protection Division.”

  Ballard nodded. “Your preacher here isn’t all saint.”

  Angie’s heart quickened. If Ballard really was a federal marshal, he might have the authority to move Matt. She blanched.