Legwork (23 page)

I was a little rusty on technical terms, but I could damn sure read a schematic when I ran across one.
And a carefully marked map of the human body that traced the path of cancer through Senator Boyd Jackson’s innards told me something I had never suspected: he was dying from lung cancer.

Now, you may be asking: lung cancer, stomach cancer—what’s the difference?
He’ll still be dead in the end.

The difference is that Senator Boyd Jackson spent about fifty percent of his political life defending the interests of North Carolina’s twenty thousand tobacco farmers and a handful of contribution-rich tobacco companies.
If the world found out that the most visible champion of tobacco rights was dying from lung cancer, the war against cigarettes would never be the same. But I wondered if his motives for hiding the truth weren’t even more personal: Boyd Jackson had devoted much of his life to defending tobacco interests.
Would condemning tobacco now—or conceding its dangers— be too much like admitting he had sacrificed his life to an unworthy cause?
I didn’t know the man, so I didn’t know the answer.
But I knew that this was a secret that was possibly worth killing for.
There was no way that Boyd Jackson or his overly proud family would have let his true illness be made public knowledge.
I checked the rest of his records and had to give nervous old Frank Waters some credit—the television reporter had been right about Dr.
Robert Dahler.
He was the key to the trail that led to this file.
He was listed as the treating physician and appeared on all forms, prescriptions, and assessments—in itself unusual, given the team treatment approach preferred in medical circles these days.
But I knew why: he was probably a family friend and sworn to secrecy.

I tucked the papers back in the envelope and hurried home, anxious to confirm a few crucial facts that might help me connect the senator’s medical condition with the murder. Just as I was walking in my apartment door, Detective First Class Bill Butler called and sounded so forlorn that I actually picked up the telephone.
I could afford to be generous.
I had a lead.
All he had was his good looks.

“Having any luck?” I asked him.

“Nothing,” he conceded.
“The SBI is about to release Ramsey Lee and they don’t like it.
But there’s no physical evidence to link him.”

“That’s because he didn’t do it,” I said.

“So you’ve been saying all along.
But what else is there?”

“Did they question people along the river?” I asked, feeling sorry for him, but not wanting to give the old fisherman away.
Besides, Bill played his cards pretty close to his chest.
I wanted to return the favor.

“What people?” Bill asked.
“Except for Lee, no one lives there.”

I was silent, weighing my conscience against my desire to upstage the SBI.
“Okay,” I finally conceded, “if I tell you something, you must swear, absolutely swear, that it is never to be traced back to me and that you won’t try to contact my witness.”

“A witness?!” he screamed, nearly puncturing my eardrum.

“Down, boy,” I cautioned him.
“Not a witness to the murder.
A witness to two people at the murder scene on that night.
I found an old man who says he saw two people, cars stuck in the mud, on the road leading up to the murder scene at about the right time.”

“How do you know about the murder scene?” he asked.

I ignored the question.
“He said it was a man and a woman.” I described them both.
Bill remained silent, his innate northern skepticism creeping through the wires.

“Not much of a description,” he said when I finished.
“Tall?
Talks funny?
That’s the whole population down here.”

“Speak for yourself,” I told him.
“I’d say most people down here think you talk funny with your Long Island drawl.”

Then it hit me.
Of course.

“Hey, are you a baseball fan?” I asked him.

“I’ve been to a few Durham Bulls games,” he said cautiously.

“Relax.
I’m not asking you out on a date.
I just want to know if you know your baseball teams.”

“Most of them,” he admitted.
“Why?”

“What team has a white uniform with black stripes?”

He thought for a moment.
“None of them,” he said.
“The New York Yankees are white with dark blue stripes. That’s as close as you get.”

I didn’t say anything more.
I hadn’t told him about the baseball hat the tall man had been wearing, but it gave me the answer I needed.

“I need to talk to your witness,” he said firmly.

“The old man was just visiting his daughter,” I lied.
“He left today for Atlanta.
You’ll never find him.
But maybe the information will help put you on the right track.”

“Or maybe you’re going to help me track him down.” His voice softened.
“Listen, thanks for the tip anyway.” He was silent for a moment.
“I can be a jerk.
You’ve been a big help. I wish there was some way…” His voice trailed off.
I didn’t prompt him to finish.
Best to leave that avenue open.

I hung up more wired than I had been since this whole case began.
Because now I knew the identity of the tall guy who talked funny.
I just needed to nail his lady friend.
And I would do it by taking the most direct route possible.
If I knew my people, he wouldn’t stay silent for long.
He didn’t have the nerve. First, I would stop by my office to pick up my gun.
Then I would do a little fishing of my own.

Bobby D.
was napping when I arrived and unimpressed with my burst of energy.
“Jesus,” he said when I pushed his feet off his desk.
“Can’t a guy get a little well- deserved rest?”

“I’ll let you know when you deserve it. Where’s today’s paper?”

“On your desk,” he said irritably, checking the trashcan to see if his new six pack was sufficiently iced yet. “Next to a faxed copy of those incorporation papers.
Closing in?” He did not look hopeful.

“I might be,” I said.
“I just need to check today’s campaign schedule.”

“We’re going to make the triple fee deadline?” he asked, his face transformed into a seedy Santa-like beaming.
“Jesus, you like to cut it close.
We’ve only got until tomorrow night.”

“We’ll make it,” I said, anxious to track down my quarry.
According to the N&O, Stoney was in Raleigh for the afternoon but scheduled to speak at a dinner in Winston-Salem that night.
I checked the time.
His entourage would just now be mobilizing for the two-hour drive out of town.

I wanted to dash out the door, but checked the faxed incorporation papers first.
I was rewarded for my diligence.
The company that had invested in Thornton Mitchell’s failed Neuse River Park project was not Sand Dollar Limited like Bobby had said.
It was “Sand-Dahler” and that made a big difference.
A very big difference indeed.
In fact, it was just what the doctor had ordered.

I checked the clip of my .380 and pulled the slide back to eject the first bullet.
Then I made sure the safety was on.
No sense shooting my toe off until I had to.
I was wearing jeans and a tee shirt, which made it tough to conceal a gun.
So I did what any self-respecting lady dick would do: I stashed it in my pocketbook.
I grabbed a beer from the trash can on my way out the door and tucked it in next to my gun.
I would celebrate later, I was sure.
If my hunch proved correct.

The receptionist at Maloney headquarters was not pleased to see me again.
I suppose I should have been flattered that she remembered me at all.
The frown that crossed her pretty little face stayed in place until she had returned with the object of my interest.

Adam Stoltz didn’t look much friendlier.
He glanced at my jeans, then at his watch, and then at a clock on the wall.

“I get the point,” I said.
“This will only take a minute.
A routine couple of questions is all.”

He frowned.
“I’m leaving in half an hour and I have to go over some items with Stoney first.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him.
“I just want to show you a photo in the car.” I looked around me, feigning nervousness.
“It’s highly confidential.
Can you come out?” I cocked my head toward the exit.

He sighed in annoyance, but followed me out. I had parked at the far end of the lot, forcing him to walk a good hundred yards before we reached my Valiant.

“Jesus,” he muttered as I unlocked the doors.
“I should have worn my hiking boots.”

I motioned for him to get in.
For the first time, I saw alarm flicker in his eyes.
“Look,” I said, acting impatient.
“You said to let you know first if I came up with anything so Stoney could prepare a statement.
This is it.
I’m keeping my promise.”

He climbed in without another word.
He really should have greased those wheels in his head.
I could hear them turning.

I joined him in the front seat, locked both doors, put my pocketbook on my lap, reached inside, and aimed the gun at his chest so that the outline of it against the fabric was obvious.
I didn’t have one in the hole, but he didn’t know that.

“I have a gun pointed at your heart,” I told him calmly.

“What?!” His head hit the ceiling and he reached for the door knob.

“Don’t move,” I warned him.
“Just sit back and shut up.”

He obeyed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he gulped for air.

“I know you were there the night that Thornton Mitchell was killed,” I explained quietly.
“I have a witness who helped you push a car out of the mud.
You were wearing a Yankees baseball cap.
You were afraid.”

“The old man,” he said sourly, looking out the window.
“She said we ought to get rid of him, too.
I should have listened to her.”

“You should never have listened to her in the first place.” He had given me an opening I hadn’t expected.
I didn’t know who she was, but he thought I did.
Maybe I could trick him into telling me.

“She’s pretty bossy, isn’t she?” I said. “Must get under your skin.”

Something in my voice gave me away.

“You don’t know who she is, do you?” he said, sitting up straight.
I moved the gun and he sat back against the seat cushion.
“You have no idea who I was with.
She stayed in the shadows.
God, she’s smarter than us all.”

I could try to bluff or I could go ahead and scare the shit out of him.
I opted for the most reliable route.
I removed the .380 from my pocketbook and placed it on my lap with the barrel pointed at his crotch.

“I’m not really in the mood to fuck around,” I explained.
“So let me put it this way: you can try to protect her or you can tell me who she is.
First let me tell you why it’s in your best interests to spill your guts.
Okay?
One, you need to spill your guts before I do.
Understand?” I jiggled the gun.

His eyes were trained on me, silent and wide.
He nodded nervously.

“Number two, the state of North Carolina is all too happy to impose the death penalty in capital murder cases. If this woman is smart enough to keep her identity hidden, she’s smart enough to pin the murder on you.
I don’t think you did it.
I don’t think you have the nerve.
I don’t think you have the temperament.
I don’t think you’re that kind of guy.
If you tell me who she is and if you cooperate with the police by testifying in court, there’s a good chance you can live.
In fact, who knows what kind of deal a good lawyer could cut for you under those circumstances.
But you aren’t going to get anywhere except pointed down a long hallway toward the death chamber if you don’t tell me right here and right now who you were with the night that Thornton Mitchell was murdered.
That’s it.
That’s all.
Tell me and save your life, maybe even your career, if you have a good enough story for the jury.”

He went for it without a moment’s hesitation.
Call it the ultimate in spin control.
“But it wasn’t my fault,” he said.
“I had no idea she would shoot him.
She said it was only to talk, to work things out, that he was trying to blackmail her.
When she opened the trunk of her car, I thought she was getting out a flashlight.
I didn’t know she had a shotgun.
I’d never even seen one before that night.” His voice squeaked like a boy in puberty.