Vendetta Stone (2 page)

He had a foreshadowing that something might be wrong when the setting sun was blotted out by a huge dark cloud. He turned on the car radio, preset to one of the news channels. “And for tonight,” the announcer said, “there is a thirty percent chance of rain, extending into—”

Home. Jackson pressed the garage door opener and turned into the driveway. The outside security lights were off. Angela always turned them on for him. Her champagne-colored Subaru was not there. Jackson stopped in the driveway and got out. The first thought to cross his mind was that Angela was still so incensed that she’d gone to dinner without him. It was his turn to throw a tantrum if that turned out to be the case. Maybe she’d left a note.

Jackson reached into his pocket for his keys. They snagged on a thread, and he g
ave a yank. He pressed on the keychain’s LED flashlight, and the garage lit up pale blue. Reaching for the lock on the side door to the kitchen, he realized the door was slightly ajar and gave it a push.

“Angela? You home?”

He flipped on lights as every nerve tingled. Nothing seemed amiss in the kitchen. All the off-white chairs were pushed neatly against the tiled table, and the fresh flower arrangement in the center exuded a strong, sweet scent. A lower cabinet drawer stuck out half an inch. Meticulous Angela always wanted everything in place and orderly. Jackson always kidded her about being a neatnik, so he immediately sensed something wasn’t right. Below the drawer . . . was that a small dirt spot? He leaned over and peered closer. That darkening spot, not quite dried, was red. Blood red.

“Angela?” Jackson’s
body tensed, then he screamed.

“Angela!”

His frantic and fruitless search began, and he shouted again for his wife as he raced into the den, hoping to find a note . . . something, anything. Nothing seemed out of place. His chest tightened as he hit the stairs, slapping light switches before throwing open the bedroom door.

“Ann
nnngel-uuurp.”

The physical illness came at first sight of the streaked, blood-stained bed sheets. Jackson dropped to his knees, wailing like the proverbial banshee.

“Oh my God. Oh. My. God! OHMIGO-O-O-O-O-D!”

He struggled to his feet, checked the bathroom—where was she?—looked in the closet—was an intruder still in the house?—grabbed up his cell phone and called 9-1-1.

The cops’ arrival led to the discovery of the Stones’ Wolfhound out back, its neck broken. Investigators pored over the house and issued an all-points bulletin. Neighbors, curious about the flashing blue lights on their quiet street, came to see what was wrong, and community watch volunteers began a search. Patrick and Sheila arrived and tried to keep Jackson calm. But at one point Jackson ran to the closet and came back with his hunting rifle. Patrick grabbed hold of the gun, forcing the barrel toward the floor. “Jack, you can’t do that! Let the police handle this. They’ll find her. Don’t go off half-cocked and assume the worst.” Jackson let go of the gun, slumped to the couch, and cried.

One of the most often-repeated clichés about revenge is that the taste is sweet. As Sheila walked in with plates for the brothers, revenge smelled like eggs. Scrambled, with smoked cheddar cheese, and a dash of Worcestershire sauce.

After a couple of bites, Jackson set the plate on the ottoman, leaned back, and closed his eyes, and Sheila headed back to the kitchen to clean up. Patrick scraped the eggs off Jackson’s plate onto his own. The sudden blare of the “Halls of Montezuma” telephone ringtone made both men jump. She
ila answered at “to the shores of,” and handed the phone to Jack. Patrick left to get dressed and give Jackson privacy.

“Good morning, Jack. Did you see the newspaper?” attorney Stan Allenby asked.

“Yeah. When did the cops decide I’m no killer?”

“It’s not over yet. The police want to interview you one more time this afternoon, then they’ll release an official statement. Can you be at the East Precinct between three-thirty and four? We should be done by five.”

“That’ll work. I need to take care of a few things beforehand.” Jackson hung up, went to the kitchen, and topped off his coffee. It was nine a.m., and Sheila and the kids were leaving for a shopping expedition to get them suitable attire for Aunt Angela’s funeral.

Once Jackson figured a course of action, he mapped out the best way to mobilize. Once a “lean, mean fighting machine,” he now had a routine workout of little more than raising a coffee mug or a beer bottle to his mouth.

But for the most important ad campaign this award-winning advertising executive would ever undertake, he hoped and prayed that one certain individual would receive his message loud and clear.

Jackson
folded the paper where my article appeared and drew a bold circle around the small agate print at the end of the story, the part that read, “Got a news tip for us? Please contact [email protected].” He handed the paper to Patrick, who came into the room buttoning his cuffs.

“Look, I’ve got some errands to run, and then I’m going to meet Stan Allenby over at the East Precinct,” Jackson said. “Call this Hilliard guy, all the TV and radio stations, The Associated Press, and anybody else you can think of, and tell them I’m ready to make a statement about Angela’s murder. Tell them to be at the police station at five. I’d like you to be there, too.”

Patrick looked up from the circled number and studied his brother. Jackson appeared calm and rational for the first time since the whole ordeal began.

“Are you sure this is the best time to talk to the media? Why not wait until after the funeral?”

Jackson shook his head adamantly. “No, it must be today. Stan expects the cops to say I am no longer being considered a suspect. I’ll make a statement that needs maximum exposure.”

Jackson strode to the entry closet with Patrick hot on his heels. Digging out the tan sport coat and slipping it on over his navy short sleeve, Jack
son bolted out the door.

“At least clean up a little. You need a shave,” Patrick shouted whi
le his brother backed his Accord out of the long driveway.

Patrick called right at noon, just as I turned off my computer and started to head out for lunch somewhere on West End. A little annoyed, I picked up on the second ring.

“Newsroom. This is Gerry Hilliard.”

“Mister Hilliard? My name is Patrick Stone, Jack’s brother.”

My tone changed f
rom business-like to sympathy. “Of course. I’ve tried calling Jackson a couple of times. How’s he doing?”

“It’s been tough on him . . . tough on all of us, but Jack most of all. Anyway, Jack asked me to call all the media and let them know he’s willing to talk to all of them. He’ll be over at the East Nashville Precinct this afternoon about five.”

I said I’d be there, thanked Patrick for calling, and looked for my city editor, Carrie Sullivan. She emerged from the mid-day news meeting and headed for the stairs, probably on her way to the lunchroom two flights down, with managing editor Ken McGuire and a couple of other departmental editors. Catching her between floors, I told her about Patrick’s call. The fact that he called a press conference instead of doing one-on-one interviews meant it wouldn’t see great play in the Saturday paper unless I cornered him alone and got something fresh after the news conference.

“Go ahead and put out a
photo order, and I’ll try to clear it with Brad,” Carrie said. Brad Moore was our photo editor. “They’ve got at least two other assignments, so it might get canceled. I’ll tell Ken now, and we’ll go over it at the three o’clock news meeting. Stop in before you leave.”

I went back to my desk and keyed the information the photographers needed into the assignment template, then called Brad to give him a heads-up.

“Yeah, I’ll see who’s least busy,” he said. “We’ve got two high school football jamboree assignments, but somebody can catch it if it’s quick. We need something for the B-section front.”

I thanked Brad and headed to lunch myself. The menu selections downstairs were grilled salmon and vegetables and a slice of bread or Salisbury steak with green peas, buttery mashed potatoes, and a roll. I went with the latter and added a Diet Coke out of the fountain machine. Carrie and the other editors finished, but she lingered while I dug in.

“Your cop sources got any leads now that Stone looks to be in the clear?”

I shook my head and swallowed a mouthful of my scrambled peas-and-potatoes mixture before answering. “I don’t think so. It’s pretty puzzling. I heard this morning that Stone’s being grilled about four, and his brother confirmed it, so it makes sense that he’d talk to us after that meeting. I’ll swing by the station house right after I finish here and see what else I can learn.”

“Keep me posted,” Carrie said, picking up her messy, half-eaten tray of food. She headed back upstairs, and I sat there wondering what Jackson Stone could possibly say that differed from the grief expressed by hundreds of other family members of crime victims. I had no clue.

En route to the East Nashville police station, Jackson stopped to bid a final, private farewell to Angela at Eddie Paul’s Pub. Just about every afternoon for at least a decade, Jackson had stopped off at his favorite hangout, now part of a local chain of family-oriented restaurant/bars. On weekends, Angela joined him, and they’d spend a few hours in front of one of the big-screens. Often they ate. At other times, it was a launching pad for dinner elsewhere or maybe a movie or a ballgame.

He waved to a couple of old cronies as he took a familiar stool at the oak-paneled, sport
s-themed bar and ordered a LandShark. Louie, the gray-haired, overweight bartender, recognized when a guy ached and needed to be left alone. Louie pushed the beer toward him and resumed clean-up duties.

Jack
son drained half the bottle in a gulp and reflected on how his life had changed over the years, from his tough, fit Marine days to a middle-aged ad exec who might—just might—be dealing with a drinking problem. Jackson felt that the years of entertaining clients had finally caught up with him and admitted to an excessive, addictive lifestyle. But it didn’t mean he’d forgotten all his military training. He almost made it into the Scout Sniper unit. The elite USMC school washed him out because of a severe back injury, not his accuracy. That dream died and now another loss.

Angela. My God, why did this happen?

Jackson had first met Angela at a 1995 Halloween fundraiser at Eddie Paul’s Pub for one of Vice-President Al Gore’s go-green global initiatives. The fundraiser itself wasn’t held at the intimate sports bar, but the post-party was, and Angela Crosby was the featured entertainment. Jackson’s firm, Martin and Robbins, handled all promotional aspects for the event, and Jack
son, assigned to stage the after-party reception, chose Eddie Paul’s because of its proximity to Shelby Park, where the formal fundraising announcement took place.

Jackson had booked Angela as a favor to his boss, Marty Martin, who knew her political leanings and musical talents. Just like Angela, her audition tape had proved a knockout for Jackson, who didn’t hesitate hiring her. It ranked as the smartest decision he ever made, both personally and professionally. He’d watched her move easily back and forth across the stage, playing to the distinguished guest of honor. Angela paid equally close attention to Jack
son, first noticing the lean, muscular, six-foot-two former leatherneck talking with his boss. His lazy, easy-going grin put a smile on her face, and she was drawn to the magnetizing eyes that sparkled when he looked her way.

After the show, Marty made the formal introduction. “And this is—”

“Jack Stone,” she said real cool-like in her soft Texas drawl, extending a demure hand and thrusting her hip playfully. “I caught you watching my . . . aaact. Howdja like?”

Jackson sure did, but he wasn’t letting on just yet. His voice took a more serious tone.

“You were wonderful, Miss Crosby. One thing bothered me, however.”

The smile vanished.
“And what might that be?”

“Those tight-fitting jeans you’re wearing. I was going to ask how you breathe. But I think I know the answer because you’ve taken my breath away.”

A corny line, but she laughed at the set-up. He’d won her.

They were inseparable after that and married a year later on Halloween at Eddie Paul’s. All the guests wore outrageous costumes.

During their first year of marriage, Jackson and Angela had adjusted to different lifestyles, him working days and her nights. Jackson went to most of her local club appearances and missed her something terrible when she hit the road.

Angela had confronted Jack
son head-on about the darker side of his personality. It scared her. Much of their heart-to-heart conversation focused on his military background, a time he rarely discussed. Angela could touch his physical scars, but not the mental ones.

“What happened to you in Kuwait musta been horrid, but everything I know and trust and feel tells me it happened to you for a reason. Everything happens for a reason. Never forget that,” Angela had told him. “Someday, Jack, you’ll be able to draw on those experiences, and they’ll get you through whatever test you face in this life. And if you don’t get through it, there’ll be a reason for that, too. And I’ll weep over you, pray for you, and then get on with livin’. Same rules if it’s the other way around.”

Jackson, sitting at the bar with tears in his beer, half-laughed, half-sobbed to himself, thinking about Angela and how good she was to him and for him. Am I going crazy? “I’m losing it,” he mumbled. He wiped his eyes dry. Marines don’t cry. Nobody could help him now.

“Hey, Jack, you okay?” Louie asked as he wiped the counter.

“No. No
, I’m not,” Jackson said. “Nothing’s ever going to be okay again.”

“Look, I know I’m just your bartender. But I’m your friend, too. You’ve been coming here a lot of years now, and some guys don’t like to talk much about their problems. But you’ve got more friends than you know. So if you want to talk about this—now or later—you know where to find me. And if there’s anything you need—anything—all you gotta
do is ask. What happened to Angela is unforgivable. If I could get my hands . . .” His voice trailed off.

Louie’s gesture touched Jackson. He experienced an emotional overload during the last week—shock, horror, grief, and a lot of anger—so much so that he thought nothing remained. But this crusty bartender reached out, and more importantly, reached him. Considering his plan, he just might need a friend—someone who wouldn’t turn on him or turn him in. Jackson smiled and spoke an octave lower out of the right side of his mouth in his best Humphrey Bogart imitation.

“Thanks, Louie. Is this the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

Louie grinned back, causing his sagging wrinkles to change direction. Glad to see the sudden switch in Jackson’s demeanor, he fired back.

“Watch it, pal. This ain’t no Casablanca.”

“And I’m no Bogey, right?” said Jackson. “Well, I appreciate the gesture, and I’m going to take you up on that someday soon, if you want. But I’ve said enough. I’ve gotta get going right now.”

“Whattya mean?” Louie said, surprised-like. “We ain’t even talked. Grab a table, and I’ll be right over.”

Louie started to take off his apron, but Jackson held up a hand to stop him.

“Catch the six o’clock news, and you’ll see what I mean. I’ll come by in a few days and we’ll see if you still want to talk.”

Jackson drained the rest of his beer and raised the bottle in a final silent toast to Angela, as a puzzled, but curious Louie watched him exit. Jackson looked around the old bar, unsure if he would ever return.

Stepping from the dark interior into the bright sunshine made Jackson half close his eyes while he fished the Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses out of his jacket pocket. In the car, he pulled the visor half-down, backed out, and made his way through the stop-and-go afternoon traffic on Gallatin Pike, the city’s major route north out of downtown that wasn’t an interstate. Like all of East Nashville today, businesses along that road reflected a cross-section of the community on the comeback. An influx of new retail and chain grocery stores and restaurants stood
alongside the numerous Hispanic and other ethnic eateries and time-worn, outdated 1960s shopping centers and strip malls.

Jackson took a left on East Trinity Lane and soon pulled into the parking lot of the Metro Police Department’s still-new East Precinct. The facility opened on July 24, 2007, and the state-of-the-art precinct delivered on everything the aging station house lacked, except character. Three years later
it still exuded a sterile, wet-paint, look-but-don’t-touch feel. At just over twenty thousand square feet, this precinct was six times larger than the one it replaced. One hundred and thirty officers—sergeants and detectives, including supervisory officers, and then another twenty or so support personnel worked at the facility. The design included a two-thousand-square-foot community meeting room, where outreach programs, seminars, and media briefings were held.

The precinct’s nerve center communications department, AKA “the bubble,” a reinforced glass enclosure, helped coordinate officers and served as a lifeline for the public, where someone coming in off the
streets first reported a crime.

Jackson arrived at the station house about three p.m. and sat in
his car waiting for Stan Allenby to arrive. The blazing sun made it too hot to stay out long, so he went inside and stood in the reception area. The officer in “the bubble” asked if he could help, and Jackson explained his presence.

“Someone will be right with you,” the officer said. “Would you like a cup of coffee or soft drink?”

“Got anything made by Budweiser?” The amiable smirk wasn’t returned.

Allenby was late, so
Jackson called the lawyer’s office.

“Mr. Allenby got stuck in court proceedings
, but called and said to tell you if you called that he would be leaving soon for East Nashville,” the secretary said.

That delay gave Jackson time to shake off the effects of the couple of beers downed at Eddie Paul’s and scout around outside. The sudden change from the climate-controlled police lobby to the burst of August heat made Jackson break into an immediate sweat. Removing his sport coat, he walked the station’s perimeter to get his bearings, taking note of the precinct’s unobstructed views in all directions. A chain link fence topped by a coil barbed wire surrounded the parking lot full of cruisers and personal vehicles.

Jackson anticipated his plan would cause a major public reaction, and he wanted to make a quick getaway without answering a bunch of questions from either the media or the cops. He walked up and down Trinity Lane several times, then down a couple of side streets in each direction. Then he went back to the station and moved his car a couple of blocks away, parking behind the white-bricked Nashville Public Health facility. His car looked out of place in the run-down residential area that showed its age. Several kids were out playing in yards, paying no attention to Jackson. Walking back to the precinct, he checked to see if his car could be seen from the street. Nope. Good. He wiped his brow several times, threw his sport coat over his left shoulder, and huffed a little as he walked up the hill.

“Man, I am so out of shape,” Jackson mumbled as he went back into the lobby and used his smartphone to call his brother. He barked out two questions.

“Yeah, I called all the media, and everybody said they’d be there by four-thirty,” Patrick said. “What else?”

“You planning to come? I might need a fast ride outta here.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“I’ll explain after I meet with the cops,” Jackson said and clicked off.

Twenty minutes later, Allenby wheeled his white Cadillac into the parking lot. Detective James Williams, the lead investigator since Angela disappeared, greeted them. So far, Williams failed to impress
Jackson. His cool demeanor didn’t fit Jackson’s stereotypical mental image of a hard-boiled detective. He expected Shaft, and instead got the shaft. A thirty-five-year-old black man, Williams stood about five-foot-eleven and weighed right at two hundred pounds. A pencil-thin mustache seemed too small for his moon face, but his dark, intense eyes revealed a keen intelligence. A sharp dresser, Williams spoke with an easy-going drawl that exuded the same laid-back confidence of a sax player down at one of the jazz clubs in the Printer’s Alley entertainment district.

Williams, a member of the Nashville force for thirteen years, proved good at his job. A thorough check into Jackson and Angela’s backgrounds revealed no hint of dirt or scandal, no financial or marital problems, no cheating by either spouse.

Williams had checked the airlines and Jackson’s business connections in Charlotte to verify every statement Jackson made in those first few days of the investigation. There were no discrepancies, no hints that Jackson had hired a hit-man in order to collect an insurance payoff. Angela’s modeling career had allowed her to amass a sizable bank account, but her will specified that unless it involved a personal injury settlement, seventy-five percent of her estate would go to various local charities, designating most, but allowing Jackson to select two charities. Word for word, codicil for codicil, their wills matched. The couple agreed the surviving spouse could take care of him/herself and wanted their earnings to be put to work after they were gone.

But instincts told Williams he missed something. He’d seen some good actors and always saw through it. Jackson might be telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but doubtful. He might be the
bereaved, grieving husband, yet still hiding something. But what?

“So, Mister Stone, everything seems to be in order, and I guess we’re done,” Williams said. “We’ll be in touch, but rest assured we’re doing everything we can to find your wife’s killer.” The detective paused as Jackson returned a firm handshake. A grimace replaced the smile.

“So, one last time. Is there anything else you can tell us, something that can shed some light on what happened to your wife?”

Anxious to meet the press, Jackson let his anger spike and introduced the cops to a very different Jackson Stone.

“What happened to my wife is that whoever did this is still out there,” he said, “and you guys are clueless. You’ve spent a week wasting time looking at me instead of tracking the butcher who killed her.”

Williams’ eyes widened at the verbal assault as Allenby pressed hard on Jackson’s shoulder and told him to get hold of himself. Precinct Commander Mark Reynolds emerged from an adjoining room to defuse the situation, adding, “I’m sure you understand we look at everyone and everything in every case that comes our way. Detective Williams thoroughly checked out other leads and details. We’ll share them with you at the appropriate time, but today we’re going to let the world know, while we are still looking at anyone and everyone, you are no longer being considered as the primary suspect.”

The lawyer answered before Jackson popped off again, but Jackson’s stare said plenty.

“That’s fine. We look forward to regular updates on how the case is proceeding and hope your hunt comes to a swift, satisfying conclusion. Please forgive Jackson’s outburst.”

Reynolds’ plan to just release a statement changed when he was informed that the media awaited in the briefing room. The commander felt the public nature of the case warranted an assurance that his department undertook a pro-active approach in the search. Allenby didn’t know Jackson had alerted the media.

“Are you sure you want to talk about this? Now might not be the best time,” Allenby advised.