Vengeance is Mine - A Benjamin Tucker Mystery (11 page)

“Can I make you coffee, Mr. Ben?” she asked.

“Actually, Roberta, I could use a drink. Is there any scotch in the house?”

She nodded. “
Si
. On the rocks?”

“Yes, please.”

She came back with a fifth of Johnnie Walker Blue and two glasses, set the bottle in front of me and sat down. I poured about a half-inch of scotch into my glass. She frowned.

“That is not a drink for a man,” she said. She took the bottle and poured another two inches into my glass.

“Now that is a drink for a man,
si
?”

I smiled. “
Si
.”

She poured the same amount for herself, and we clinked glasses.

We each took a long sip. “You were right, Roberta, I brought evil to my family.”

“No, it was not you,” she huffed. “It was that mannyak. You don’t geeve up. You help the police … and you get that bastard son of a beetch! Your family needs you. We all need you.”

Roberta finished her drink in three more swallows and stood. She squeezed my shoulder, turned, and went upstairs.

I had learned two things from that brief interaction. First, and most important, Roberta cared about me. A person’s true feelings come out in times of crisis. The second thing I learned was that Roberta could out-drink me any day of the week. It took me another fifteen minutes to finish
my
glass of scotch.

I turned the TV on to channel fourteen. Maggie came down about twenty minutes later and joined me on the sofa. “The girls are down,” she said. “Amanda’s drained. She’s going to have a rough time.”

It was eerie watching coverage of the crime and seeing my old house surrounded by police and crime scene tape. My Jaguar was gone, probably towed to the dealer. Lieutenant Netter gave a statement at midnight and took questions. He kept getting asked if the murder was the work of the Headless Corpse Killer, a.k.a. Jack Plum. Netter was non-committal, saying, “there are substantial similarities, and it cannot be ruled out at this time.”

The reporter gave the name of the victim and stated, “she was the ex-wife of Benjamin Franklin Tucker, renowned author and member of the police task force recently formed to stop the killings that have plagued the southwest Raleigh suburbs.”

“Jeez! How’d they find that out so quickly?” Maggie asked.

“It’s not really very difficult,” I said. “You can do a search on public records that contain Jennifer’s name and find my name on the same records, like marriage or divorce records. They could also have interviewed neighbors. It’s pretty easy.”

“What about tomorrow?” Maggie asked. “What about Amanda’s school?”

“No one’s going to school tomorrow,” I said. “Not Amanda Jane … and not Julie. And you’re not going to work. Nobody’s leaving this house until I find out what’s going on at the task force meeting. You’re going to sleep right here on the sofa, and I’m going to pull this armchair over in front of the stairs.”

I went with Maggie as she retrieved a couple of blankets and pillows from the master bedroom. I opened the closet, reached up on the top shelf and pulled down a blue plastic pistol case. I set the case on the bed and opened it to reveal Pure Reason.

It was the nickname I had given my Smith & Wesson Model 329PD, .44 Magnum caliber revolver. I opened the cylinder and inserted six .44 Special copper jacketed hollow point cartridges.

Maggie was watching me. She hated guns, and we’d had a terrible fight the day I told her I bought it. But she said nothing. This was different—one of our own had been murdered.

After setting up nightlights in the upstairs hall and the great room, Maggie made up the sofa.

I tapped lightly on Nora’s door. “Nora?” I asked softly. “Are you okay?”

The door opened. She had changed into her nightgown and was watching the news coverage on TV. “I’m fine, Benji. Really.”

I gazed past her to see what looked like a .38 caliber snub nose revolver resting on her nightstand. I raised my eyebrows. “Does Maggie know you have that?”

She smiled. “My little Magpie doesn’t need to know everything, does she?”

“No, I guess not.” I winked at her, and bid her good night.

Continuing on my rounds, I went upstairs to check one last time on the girls. I put my ear to Julie’s bedroom door and listened, not wanting to knock or open the door and wake them. I was just about to turn around and leave when I heard a small, muffled sound. I slowly opened the door and crept inside, standing in the inky black shadows, straining to hear. The sound was my daughter quietly crying alone in the dark.

I went to the side of the bed and picked Amanda Jane up and carried her to one of the two matching daybeds in Julie’s sitting room. She was limp in my arms, and I lay down and just held her close to me until she cried herself to sleep. An hour or so later, when I finally slipped out from beside her and covered her with a quilt, I realized there were tears on my face as well.

As I quietly opened the bedroom door to leave, Julie whispered softly in the dark. “I’ll take care of her, Ben.” I tucked Julie in and kissed her cheek, my heart overwhelmed with love for my sweet, compassionate, tender-hearted step-daughter.

Maggie read my face when I came back downstairs and got up and put her arms around me, gently rubbing my back to try and comfort me. I could feel her shared anguish and was again overcome with emotion.

She watched me pull the chair to the foot of the stairs. “You’re not really going to sleep in that chair are you?” she asked.

“I slept on worse before I met you.”

“But it looks so uncomfortable,” she said.

“You’re right.” I slid the ottoman over to the chair. “There, that’s better.”

Soon, the house was quiet, but I couldn’t sleep. Too many things were running through my head. I kept thinking about Jennifer and the horror she must have experienced before she died. And I felt terrible about the mean things I had said about her. I couldn’t get her face out of my mind, remembering the way she used to smile at me when we were first married.

And then I thought about Christine’s disappearance, and the day she was found—her body dismembered and placed in a large duffle.

Roberta’s door opened upstairs, followed by her light footsteps. She was checking on the girls, and Oscar let out a single squeak. I looked up the stairs.

She was standing at the top and saw the gun sitting in my lap—her eyes met mine. She nodded in agreement and went back to bed.

CHAPTER 17

At the breakfast table, the entire family was somber and withdrawn. The girls came down at seven o’clock for breakfast, but neither of them said much, and they just picked at their eggs and buttered English muffins.

I grabbed a quick cup of coffee and chose not to have breakfast. Roberta protested, but I wanted to be early to the task force meeting to learn anything I could. I found the keys to the Cadillac Escalade and left. The two police cruisers had now been replaced by a different pair, and the new officers nodded to me as I rolled out onto Meadow Rue Drive.

At fifteen minutes past eight, I pulled into the Cary municipal parking lot and took my usual spot. It was still drizzling as I made a dash for the building. Lieutenant Netter and Detective Cox were in the hallway talking, and they looked at me in astonishment when they saw me come in.

“Tucker,” Netter said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I ran my hand through my wet hair. “It’s Friday,” I said. “I’m here for the meeting.”

He gestured toward the conference room. “I can’t let you go in there,” he said. “You’re the ex-husband of last night’s victim.”

“What?” I was stunned.

Detective Cox piped in. “For Christ’s sake, Tucker, we haven’t even cleared you as a suspect. We can’t have you on this task force. How the hell would that look?”

“A suspect? That’s ridiculous! C’mon, Frank! You know me.”

He became irritated. “Don’t
Frank
me, dammit! It’s Detective Cox to you. And do I know you, Tucker? Do I really? All I know is that you seemed like a nice guy when you interviewed us for your book. Who knows what internal demons you’re dealing with?”

I was shocked. “I can’t believe this! I need to be part of this task force.” I looked at Netter. “Lieutenant?”

“Sorry, Tucker. You’re out!” There was an awkward pause. “But we need to talk to you, so wait out in the lobby, and I’ll come and get you after the meeting.”

I was so pissed off, I wanted to choke them both. I stormed past them into the conference room.

Cox yelled at me. “Hey! Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

I glared at him. “I skipped breakfast, so I’m stealing one your precious fuckin’ donuts!” I held out my wrists. “Cuff me, copper!”

Lainie had already sat down at the table. She’d heard most of the exchange, and the look on her face told me she felt bad for me.

Just to irritate Cox, I grabbed
two
donuts and left.

I called Maggie from the lobby and told her about this latest development. She listened patiently as I ranted and raved and said maybe they would clear things up quickly and put me back on the task force. I was so flippin’ angry I didn’t even know if I wanted to be on the task force anymore—yes I did.

I waited almost two hours, but I put the time to good use by first calling to check on my car. The undercarriage was okay, but all four tires and one wheel needed to be replaced. Estimated cost was thirty-five hundred bucks—almost a quarter of the cost of my old Corolla when it was new. My highfalutin Jag would be ready late Saturday afternoon.

Then I called my brother Tommy in Illinois and broke the news about Jennifer’s death and the potential threat to Amanda Jane and the rest of us. He was devastated—and furious. He wanted to catch the next flight to Raleigh along with our other brother George, but I talked him out of it. I was afraid they would only be additional targets for Plum.

Netter finally showed up and escorted me to an interrogation room. Inside, there was a table with six chairs around it. Seated were Detective Cox, Agent MacKenzie, and Bob Dunwood from the SBI. A young female officer entered and handed Netter a file folder.

“This just came in,” she said, and left.

I sat opposite them, facing a two-way mirror on the wall. “I can’t believe this,” I said.

Netter sat next to me and began. “We need to clear you of this crime.” He informed me of my rights and asked if I wanted an attorney present.

I declined.

“I need to tell you this is being recorded.”

“Whatever,” I huffed.

“According to the M.E.,” he said, “Jennifer died between 5:45 p.m. and 6:15 p.m. yesterday evening. What were you doing during that time?”

“Probably eating dinner,” I said. “I picked up a Quarter Pounder from the drive-thru at the McDonald’s on Kildaire Farm Road. I ate in the car.”

“The one by High Meadows or the one by Ten-Ten?” Cox asked.

“High Meadows.”

“Do you have the receipt?”

“No.”

“Did you pay cash, ATM, or credit?” Netter asked.

“Cash.

“Was anyone with you?”

“No.”

“What were you doing before that?” he asked.

“I was at home reviewing the photos I’d taken at the Clancy crime scene.”

“Can anyone verify this?”

“No. I was alone.”

“What time did you arrive here yesterday evening?” Cox asked.

“It was about six fifteen.”

“Nobody remembers seeing you before six thirty-five,” Netter said.

He totally irritated me. “Has it escaped you that this is a damn police station?” I said. “There are surveillance cameras all over this place. Look at yesterday’s video!”

Netter opened the file folder he was holding and began reviewing the contents. Immediately, he started shaking his head but kept silent.

Bob Dunwood began timelining a scenario starring
me
as Jennifer’s killer. “According to Mrs. Ralston, the music teacher, Mrs. Tucker dropped your daughter off early … at about five thirty in the afternoon. Then she left. You could have been waiting for her, killed her, and then come here to man the tip hotline.”

“There’s not enough time,” I said. “It must be a half-hour drive from the estate to Jennifer’s house and another fifteen minutes from her house to here.”

“Eighteen minutes from your place to the Bradford house,” Cox said. “I drove it this morning.”

“Yeah? When,” I sneered, “at six this morning? When there’s no traffic? Try it again at six tonight. Besides, this is all ludicrous! If I had killed Jennifer in the manner described last night, I’d have been covered with blood. When and how was I supposed to have cleaned up?”

Cox replied. “You could’ve worn something like one of those bunny suits the CSI guys use, then put it in a trash bag and disposed of it on your way here.”

I almost laughed at him. “You’ve been watchin’ too much TV.”

Dunwood opened a file folder and looked at me. “Ben, do you have a history with a—” he looked down at the report in the file, “Mrs. Golda Lucinski?”

“Good grief! You mean like a romantic history? She must be seventy-five years old.”

“No. I mean a confrontational history,” Dunwood said.

“I guess you could say that,” I said. “We got into it a few times about her dog shittin’ in my yard. I mean, I really didn’t mind it that much—after all, he’s just a dog. But at least have the common decency to come back and pick up after him. Why are you asking about
her
, anyway?”

Dunwood answered. “We have a written statement from her saying she saw you on the sidewalk in front of 237 West Bradford at about 5:45 yesterday afternoon.”

I shook my head. “Well, she’s mistaken. I hadn’t been by that house since I dropped Amanda Jane off after our visit a week ago last Sunday.”

“Do you think she held a grudge and purposely pointed a finger at you?” Netter asked.

“Nah! She wouldn’t do that; things weren’t that antagonistic between us. She’s just an old lady who let her dog shit in my yard. She’s just confused.”

“She was positive it was yesterday because she saw you while she was bringing in her garbage can,” Cox said. “What day is the garbage picked up in that neighborhood?”