Vengeance is Mine - A Benjamin Tucker Mystery (19 page)

I sat in the armchair and crossed my legs. “I mean, you know me. I love Julie like she’s my own kid. And Maggie has to ‘think about it.’ Bullshit!

“I know what you’re thinking. You have a look on your face like … maybe I’m taking this personally. Well, that’s exactly what Maggie said last night.

“It makes me feel like an outsider … like I’m different,” I added. “You should know how that feels more than anyone.”

There was a light tap at the door, and Julie stuck her head in.

I waved her in. “C’mon in, sweetheart.”

“Do you have company?” she asked. “It sounded like you were talking to someone.”

Oscar was sitting on the sofa and looked at me with his rubber hamburger in his mouth. “Nope,” I said. “It’s just the two of us having a discussion.”

“Are you still mad at me?” Julie asked softly.

“Yeah … so you better come over here and give me a big ol’ hug.”

She beamed and wrapped her arms around me. “I love you, Ben,” she said. “I’m sorry I was mean yesterday.”

“I love you too, munchkin.” I kissed the top of her head. “Besides, everyone has their head up their butt once in a while.” I told her about Netter telling me I needed a window in my stomach to see where I was going. She collapsed on the sofa and laughed until she had tears in her eyes.

Oscar decided to get in on the fun and hurried over to lick Julie’s face. I laughed at the two of them as he worked her over. She tried to lean out of his reach as she giggled helplessly. What I saw right now was a little girl rolling around with her dog. But I couldn’t help remembering what I saw the night before.

“So, uh, Julie. Has your mom ever talked to you about … you know … s-e-x?”

She tried to push Oscar away from her face and laughed again. “No, thank god! But don’t worry, Ben. We had some pretty explicit classes at school where we talked about sexual reproduction, masturbation, and condoms and stuff. I’m almost an adult now. I’ve been having my period for almost two years, you know.”

“Uh … that’s way more information than I needed,” I said.

She grinned. “I hope Amanda comes back soon. It was nice having a sister around. She has her period now, too.” She began walking to the door with Oscar in her arms.

“Wait, wait, wait!” I said surprised. “How do you know that?”

She set Oscar back down and looked at me. “Ben, we talk … or text. Almost every day. We talk about
everything
.”

What the hell was
everything,
I frowned. “Like what?”

“Just girl stuff. And believe me, Amanda knows everything there is about the birds and the bees. C’mon, boy.” She opened the door, and the two of them headed back to the main house.

How could Amanda Jane know about the birds and the bees? I mean, I understood how she could know a little bit about the birds. But how could she know anything about the damn bees?

 I turned on the TV to check the weather. It was going to be sunny, in the mid-sixties—a perfect day to take my new golf clubs to the country club driving range and start practicing for Saturday’s date with Marcus. I had never swung a golf club before in my life.

My cell phone rang. It was Agent MacKenzie with an update on the morning task force meeting. Not much new to report. The forensics team had removed a number of trace evidence materials from the box containing my ex-wife’s severed head. They included hairs, fibers, and more paint particles from the third cervical vertebrae. All items were being compared to trace evidence from the previous killings. Almost certainly, some of them would match.

Dunwood’s SBI team was still investigating possible links between the three victims. They had their hair done in different salons, rented videos from different locations, bought gas from different gas stations, got coffee from different coffee shops. There were a couple of links between Jennifer and Rene Clancy. They had shopped at some of the same markets and dined at some of the same restaurants. But this was not all that unusual because they both lived in Cary, only about three miles apart.

“I’m convinced Plum works in the area,” Lainie said. “That would explain how he might have come in contact with the victims, and also how he could have delivered a package to your home during his lunch break. I keep coming back to a job where he works with his hands. Maybe he’s a gardener … or some kind of service technician.”

A chill ran down my spine, and I said nothing as I stood there in silence staring out the window.

“Ben?” Lainie asked. “Are you there?”

“I’m looking out my window at five service technicians installing a new security system on the grounds.”

“Jesus. Do you know them?”

“I don’t know
any
of them,” I said.

There was a tense pause. “A security system technician would probably have extensive knowledge about how to break into a home undetected … so would a locksmith,” she said. “One of those guys could even be wiring up your house, so he could watch you and your family remotely.”

“If you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re failing miserably.”

She took some information about the security company. “I’m forwarding this to the SBI to check out Brackus personnel. I have to get back to DC, but I’ll be back in a few days.” She paused, “Be careful, Ben,” and hung up.

Brackus had told me the technicians would be concentrating on the exterior grounds first—fencing, flood lights, and exterior sensors. They would not need access to the inside of the main house until Monday.

I sent Amanda Jane a quick text message, loaded my golf clubs in the trunk of my car, loaded Oscar into the passenger seat, and left. A short detour down Kildaire Farm Road and I dropped Oscar off at the Creature Comforts Animal Hospital in Cary for a bubble bath and a pedicure. I told them it would also be nice if Dr. Sigmon could transplant a new brain.

Dr. Sigmon, or Dr. Betsy as her friends referred to her, was a kind-natured soul who adored small dogs. And it was obvious at our first meeting that her little Chihuahua, Tacobelle, had its tiny paws wrapped around the doctor’s heart.

My next stop was Harry’s Gun Shop. I was sore from the hammer on Pure Reason
rubbing against my stomach. Last Friday, I’d ordered a shoulder holster, and it had finally come in. By the time Harry fitted me and I was ready to leave, it was past one o’clock. I tossed the holster in the trunk and left.

It was turning out to be a beautiful day. I pulled my car into the Highlands Country Club and parked at the far end of the lot. I’d never been there before, so I took a few minutes to roam around and observe the overindulgence firsthand. The main salon was extravagantly furnished with fine soft brown leather sofas and wing chairs, gleaming solid cherry wood tables, and expensive artwork on the walls. The deep pile carpeting was a rich, dark burgundy with patterns of gold and green foliage running through it. Impressive.

In the corner, I spotted Nora sitting with three cronies playing cards—bridge, I assumed. They all had cocktails and were giggling like schoolgirls. Nora saw me and waved.

I waved back and then walked past the off-track betting lounge toward the grille room where they were still serving lunch. No one knew me there, so I was politely asked for my membership card, which was under just about everything else in my wallet. Polite ratcheted up when they found out who I was, and they cordially seated me.

My cheeseburger and fries were excellent, but I almost choked on the eighteen-dollar price tag. Beer was another eight bucks.

By midafternoon, the sun had warmed things up considerably. I got my clubs from the car, walked to the pro shop and bought a large bucket of golf balls and a golf glove—thirty-two dollars. It was a magnificent golf course with bright green velvety turf and exquisitely manicured grounds. At the driving range, I chose an area off to myself and set my clubs down, and then went to a soda machine and bought a can of Coke—three more dollars. I was going to spend my entire monthly allowance before ever hitting my first ball.

My cell phone rang. Netter.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Highlands Country Club … at the driving range.”

“Christ, what the hell are you doing there? You turning into one of those rich assholes?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I have to play golf with Marcus on Saturday. I’m practicing.”

“I’m on my way,” he said, and hung up.

For the next fifteen minutes, I tried to hit those little fucking balls off the tee. I tried everything—tee high, tee low, stand forward, stand backward. Nothing helped, and I was getting more pissed off with each swing.

Netter finally found me.

“Do you have your service weapon on you?” I asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I want you to go down to Marcus Bradley’s office and shoot that son of a bitch right now!”

He laughed. “What for?”

“He’s trying to humiliate me on this damn golf course,” I said. “Probably still pissed about the briefcase. Do you know what his middle name is? Renault! What kind of an asshole name is Renault?”

Netter laughed again. “C’mon, let’s see what you’ve got.” He sat on a bench about ten feet directly behind me.

I teed up another ball, but I hit it off the end of the club and the ball sailed almost straight to the right, barely missing another golfer about twenty yards down.

I winced. “Sorry!” I yelled. He looked back at me with his hand on his hip. “Sorry,” I repeated.

“You sure looked like a jack-off on that one,” Netter said. “Ya gotta keep your arm straight.”

I looked at him. “What? Like you’re some kind of a golf expert now?”

“Sunday afternoons … sometimes I watch golf on TV. They say you’re supposed to keep your arm straight.”

“Well, that’s real good, Lieutenant. If you’re such a good golfer, why don’t you grab a damn club and come up here and show me how it’s done.”

He waved me off, and I teed up another ball and addressed it.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Which one what?”

“Which arm?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Netter said. “Both of ‘em, I guess.”

I hit the ball slightly above center, and it skimmed through the grass about sixty feet forward and stopped.

“I think you’re supposed to hit it in the air,” wiseass said.

I spun around and glared at him. “I know that, dammit!” I tossed the club on the ground. “Why the hell are you here, anyway?”

Netter pulled out a cigar and stuck it in his mouth.

“I don’t think they allow smoking here,” I said.

“Let ‘em call the police,” He lit the cigar. “Anyway, on Sunday, Chief Grissom from Apex pulled the police detail from Sacred Haven Cemetery.”

I sat next to Netter and took a drink from my Coke. “Well, that was a waste of time anyway,” I said. “Plum’s too smart to step into that trap.”

He exhaled a stinking cloud of smoke. “I think you’re wrong. I’m beginning to understand this bastard, and I think he wants to park Knudsen’s head on that fuckin’ grave right under our noses.” He looked at me. “My gut tells me it’s going to be tonight, and I’m going to be right there waitin’ for him. I’ve already cleared it with Grissom, but he thinks it’s a waste of time. Anyway, I could use some company. I’ll double the detail at your home and have them there at six tonight. You interested?”

I scowled. “Are you kidding? Have you seen the weather report? There’s a band of thunderstorms coming through tonight.”

Netter just looked at me and waited.

“I mean, c’mon! Spend the night with you … in the cemetery … in the rain? You can’t be serious. Sounds like something out of Edgar Allan Poe!”

He continued looking at me.

But it was Netter’s gut—and Netter’s gut was almost always right. I gave up and sighed. “All right, dammit, count me in.”

CHAPTER 28

Back at the estate, I managed to nap for three hours before Netter arrived at six thirty, driving his sister’s brown sedan. He didn’t want me taking my Jaguar with its TUCKER license plate anywhere near the cemetery because it would “stick out like a whore in a purple dress at a Bar Mitzvah.”

I kissed Maggie goodbye, and Netter and I walked out the door. It was already dark out. Luckily, things were still chilly between Maggie and me, and she hadn’t asked much about it. I simply told her that I was keeping the Lieutenant company on a stakeout for Jack Plum. Oddly enough, it was the truth.

As we walked down the drive, I stopped at the police cruiser, and the officer rolled down the window. “Thank you so much for watching my family,” I said. “It means a lot.” I noticed it was Officer Mallory—the same officer who had chased me through Cary the night of Jennifer’s murder.

Officer Mallory said nothing. He just nodded and rolled his window up.

I put my things in Netter’s trunk and got in the car. “Boy,” I said, “he still looks pretty upset.”

Netter exhaled a drag from his cigar. “Yeah. He’s one of those by-the-book pricks. But he’s a good cop. I wish I had more like him.” Netter started the car and drove off. I rolled my window down and leaned my head out so I could breathe.

“You bring that cannon of yours?” Netter asked.

I pointed to under my left arm. “It’s right here.”

“What? You wearin’ a shoulder rig? Why don’t you use a belt holster?”

“Because even though it’s a light alloy frame,” I said, “the damn thing pulls my pants down.”

Netter laughed. “Well, we certainly don’t want that. But I have to tell ya’, with that thing hangin’ from your shoulder all night, by tomorrow you’ll look like a humpback. You haven’t got magnums in there, do ya’?”

“.44 specials,” I said. “Two hundred and twenty grain jacketed hollow points.”

Netter nodded. “Good. I don’t want you killin’ somebody in Raleigh if you fire that thing and miss.”

We reached Apex, and parked on a side street two blocks away from Sacred Haven Cemetery. Netter popped the trunk. We gathered our things and walked up the cemetery main drive and past the mausoleum.

“Watch where you’re walking,” Netter said. “This place has monuments, not the flat markers. It’d be pretty easy to trip and bust your ass.” Minutes later, we were standing at Karla Knudsen’s resting site. We looked around, but there wasn’t much to see. It was getting too damn dark.