Alana Candler, Marked for Murder (17 page)

Brad shook his head. “He’s too hotheaded to pull off Alana’s kidnapping without leaving some kind of clue. I don’t believe he’s the one in charge, but he might still be involved. Let’s check with Sandra’s boss at the Roadster Café and come back after we’ve shot her story full of holes.”

An hour later, they sat in the Roadster Café and watched Sandra waiting on tables. She had waited on them with shaky hands and short, clipped sentences.

Vernon pushed the salt and pepper shakers around in circles on the table. “She knows we caught her lying. When are we gonna confront her with it?”

“That’s her last customer. When he leaves, then we’ll have a little talk.”

Ten minutes later, the white haired man left a tip on the table and walked out the door. Brad raised his hand to Sandra and motioned her to their table.

When she inched up next to the table, Brad glared at her.

“We know you worked last Friday, Sandra. Your boss said you were here, and we talked to several of the regulars who said you waited on them that night. Now, how about telling us the truth?”

Sandra’s countenance fell, and she slumped down in the seat. Brad could tell from her face—she knew this was going to be a long night.

THIRTY-THREE

BRAD SAT AT HIS DESK
and blew out a troubled breath as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. The police chief in Ross was not being cooperative. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—believe the attempts on Alana’s life were connected. Brad leaned back in his chair, the chair creaking as its worn springs protested under his weight. He hadn’t gained weight, but the chair had seen better days.

“I know, Chief Carlson, but this is my sister we’re talking about. Wouldn’t you want protection for
your
sister? Yeah, yeah, I know all about budgets and overspending. I understand. I still have men on sick leave too.” He frowned at the clock across the room. “Okay, sir. Let me know if you find out anything else, and I’ll try to see if I can come up with a clear connection.”

Bo walked into Brad’s office and threw down a stack of papers. “I need these okay’d before the bookkeeper will give me a payment voucher.” He stared at Brad’s face.

Brad stared back. “What’re you looking at?”

Bo leaned forward and spread his fingers on the smooth metal desk. “Those dark circles under your eyes. Man, you look like you could use a shave and a shower. Something else happen?” Curiosity resonated from every syllable.

“I can’t get the Ross police to understand that Alana’s life might be in danger.”

Bo straightened up slowly and looked alert. “What do you mean?”

“I mean someone tried to kill her again last night with a bomb in her apartment, and the police in Ross think it was planted to cover up evidence of a
burglary
—only there was nothing stolen. They won’t consider giving Alana protection.”

Bo went pale. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s fine. Jaydn was there, and he shielded her from most of it.”

“Jaydn?”

“Jaydn Holbrook.”

“Are we talking about
the
Jaydn Holbrook?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is he the same Jaydn Holbrook that runs International Enterprises down on Fifth Street?”

Brad shook his head. “No way! That’s Ross Holbrook. I’ve met the man. He’s a good thirty years older than Jaydn. This Jaydn Holbrook and I went to school together. I haven’t seen him in years, but we used to be pretty good friends. I’m just glad he was with Lane when the bomb exploded.”

“Where’s Alana now?” Bo asked.

“She’s with Jaydn at his company apartment in Ross until we can get her some kind of protection. At least whoever’s doing this won’t have a clue she’s there. Listen, Bo. I can’t be with Alana every minute, and I was hoping maybe you could help me keep an eye on her.”

“Sure, Brad. Just let me know when. I’ll mention it to Kent. We’d be happy to take a turn.”

Brad walked over to the filing cabinet in his office and took out a handful of files. He placed them in a cardboard box on the floor and picked up the box.

“I’m headed to Ross to make sure Alana’s okay. I’m gonna take these with me and see if I can find some kind of connection between all these murders. Let me know if anything comes up.”

“Sure, Brad. Will do.”

“By the way, what about Martin Strands? How did his other
alibis
check out?”

“Most everyone saw him at the party, but no one could say for certain he was there the whole time. I still have to get in touch with a couple more people. There were some last-minute party crashers he mentioned, but I haven’t been to see them yet. If he’s bribed another patsy, no one’s come forward. He lied once. It’s a cinch he’ll do it again.”

“Let me know what you come up with,” Brad said.

As Brad walked through the door carrying the heavy box, the phone on his desk rang.

“Get that for me, will you, Bo?”

“Chief Candler’s office. Bo Watson speaking.”

Bo straightened up quickly and looked over his shoulder at Brad. “What?” Bo squinted in disbelief as he listened to the person on the line. “Okay, Vernon. We’ll be right over.”

Bo hung up the phone and turned to Brad.

“Dispatch got a 9-1-1 call. Someone reported hearing a couple of gunshots over in the Morning Side subdivision. When the officers got there, it was Chet’s house.”

Brad sat the box on a chair, dread filling his throat, making it hard to breathe.

Bo lowered his head and closed his eyes. “It’s Chet, Brad. He’s dead. That was Vernon. He said Chet left a suicide note.”

Brad slumped against the door. “No way! Chet wouldn’t take his own life. How?”

“Vernon said gunshot to the head. I told him we’d be right over.”

Brad nodded. His hands felt clumsy and numb, but he took the files out of the box and locked them back into the filing cabinet. Then he headed out the door, right behind Bo—an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

THIRTY-FOUR

BRAD STOOD IN THE MIDDLE
of Chet’s den and stared at the scene, hands hanging limply at his sides. He couldn’t turn away from Chet’s body, slumped over the desk—blood staining the desk calendar and the wooden floor.

Footsteps behind Brad came to a sudden stop. Bo now stood in the room with him.

The police photographer, standing just inside the door, looked a little green. Brad knew it had to be hard—photographing a murder scene as personal as this one.

“When you’re ready, sir, I’ll start in here, and then get pictures of the rest of the house,” the photographer said quietly.

Brad nodded. “Thanks, Adam.” Brad motioned to the responding officers who stood waiting for Brad’s orders. Huddled beside the small bay window, they were quiet and somber.

“Who did this?” Brad’s voice came out just above a whisper as he stared at Chet’s body.

His men, understanding that it was a rhetorical question, shifted on uncertain feet and waited.

“. . .because, I don’t believe for a minute it was a suicide.”

In order for his brain to accept a fallen friend under his watch, Brad wrapped his feelings around his determination. He
would
get to the bottom of Chet’s death.

“Go ahead and get started, Adam. Sam, let’s secure the scene. Put tapes across the doors and don’t let anyone in without my permission. Vernon, set up the grids and start checking for fingerprints, DNA . . . any kind of clue. Assign all the grids and record the assignments. We’re
not
taking for granted this was a suicide. I don’t believe Chet would take his own life, and I don’t think any of you do, either. Let’s find out who made it look like he did.”

The men in the room jumped to follow Brad’s orders, and he took a couple of steps toward the desk where he could read the note on yellow paper lying in front of Chet’s body.

I’m sorry. I can’t take the pressure anymore. This is the end.

Chetmore Edom Fabian

Brad straightened and spoke to Bo. “I thought his middle name was Parker.”

Bo shook his head and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t remember.”

“Find out, Bo, and label and bag this note. Tell the lab to check for fingerprints, and get a handwriting expert to make sure this is Chet’s signature. There should be a copy in his personnel file.”

Bo stood staring at Chet’s body. The camera lens clicked as Adam took pictures around the area. Brad rubbed the back of his head. Bo looked a little distracted. He must have been closer to Chet than he imagined.

“Bo?” His voice prodded quietly.

Bo shook his head and then took out a bag from the police backpack he had hanging on his shoulder. He tugged on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up the paper by the tip of the corner—careful not to disturb any fingerprints that might be left. After stuffing the paper into the evidence bag, he also bagged Chet’s glasses and the pen sitting on the desk.

The medical examiner came into the room, and Brad moved away from the body to give him access.

When Brad heard a commotion at the front door, he strode out there to see Sam holding Elliott back at the door.

“I don’t think you should go in, Elliott. If you do, you’ll always remember him like this.”

“Let me go, Sam.” Elliot’s voice was low and controlled, but Brad knew the growl meant business. Brad nodded, and Sam dropped his arm to let Elliott pass.

Brad met Elliot’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this, man?”

Elliott swallowed hard then nodded and turned into Chet’s den. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his breath came in short falls of his chest. When he saw Chet’s body, Brad saw emotions flash in waves through his eyes. “Who would do this?”

The anguished cry broke Brad’s heart, but he didn’t try to answer. There was nothing he could say.

Vernon came over to Brad with a yellow pad in his hands. “Sorry to interrupt, Chief, but I think you oughta see this. I found it in the top drawer of the desk.” He handed the pad to Brad then pointed to the torn surface. “It looks like the suicide note was pulled from this pad.”

“Suicide!” Elliott’s normally reserved voice fractured the serious mood of the room into a million little pieces, and everyone turned to stare.

“No way, man! No way! Chet did
not
commit suicide!”

Brad turned to lock onto Elliott’s gaze. “I agree, Elliott. Now help us prove it.”

In his anguish, Elliott faced Brad, and the air rushed out of his lungs. “I have to get some air.”

Brad waved at one of the other officers as Elliott stumbled out the door. “Go with him.”

Vernon stood with Brad as he pulled on rubber gloves and examined the yellow pad on the desk. Scratched indentions across the surface of the paper caught Brad’s attention. Picking it up carefully, he held it up to the light and had a thought. “Check it for prints, Vernon, then rub a pencil across the top of the page and see if you can bring out any words Chet might have written.”

“Yes, sir.”

Brad checked the front and back doors for evidence of a break-in. Both doors were intact, but when he checked the door leading to the garage, he saw brown gash marks.

“Hey, Bo. Check this out.”

When Bo saw the marks, he shook his head.

“It could be furniture marks. Chet was always selling his furniture and buying antiques. Remember, his dad was an antique dealer before he died.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Make sure Adam gets pictures of it anyway, okay?”

Brad walked back into the den as Vernon raised his head excitedly.

“Chief, look at this.”

Leaning over Vernon’s shoulder, Brad saw only three words revealed by the pencil rubbed across the high areas of the paper.

“murders . . . waterfront . . . Pops . . .” Brad read the words thoughtfully.

“Pops?” asked Elliott, standing in the hallway.

Brad turned to Elliott. “You know what that means, Elliott?”

“Yeah. Pops is the guy next door.” Elliott motioned toward the east end of the house. “Chet said he was strange. He told me about a box truck Pops keeps in a shed in his backyard and said he took it out all hours of the night. He wanted me to go with him . . .” Elliott’s voice broke.

“Do you know his neighbor’s real name?”

Elliott shook his head and turned to stare skeptically at Chet’s body.

Brad motioned to Vernon. “Tell Steve and Marty to go next door. See if Chet’s neighbor is home. If he is, I’ve got some questions for him.”

Brad picked up the bag containing the suicide note and showed it to Elliott. “Elliott, take a look at this. Do you think it’s Chet’s signature?”

Elliott took the bag, his face twisting. “Yeah, I think that’s his, but that doesn’t sound like something Chet would say at all. And, that’s not his middle name—it was Parker, not Edom. I’ve heard that word before somewhere. Edom . . . Edom . . .” Elliott shook his head. “I can’t remember.”