Chapter 12
Wyman Scudder, you’re a
fool.
How many times had his ex-wife said
those exact words?
She’d been right. Sheila had been right
about a lot of things.
You’re a fool. You’re a
drunk. You’re a sorry excuse for a husband. You’ve ruined your life
and tried to ruin mine, but I’m getting out while the gettin’ is
good.
Wyman lifted the open bottle of Wild
Turkey 101 proof bourbon whiskey and poured his glass threefourths
full. The damn stuff had cost him sixty bucks, but he had the
money, didn’t he? It was nobody’s business what he paid for his
pleasures and a good bottle of bourbon headed his list of carnal
delights. He lifted the glass to salute his ex-wife, his
ex-associates, and his ex-life. He might have been on his way down
six months ago, but not now.
“Here’s to Wyman Scudder. Long may he
live the good life.”
He downed one long, glorious gulp,
shivered, coughed, and then laughed. When he left his office
today—a right nice office, if he did say so himself—he’d be going
home to a Mill Creek Run apartment. After living in his old office
for nearly a year, he had every right to celebrate his good
fortune, didn’t he? A new office on Third Street, a first-rate
apartment, a good bottle of bourbon, and a new suit. He ran his
hand over the quality material of his thousand-dollar pin-striped
suit. It might be off the rack, but it was a damn expensive
rack.
Wyman took a sip of the smooth whiskey
and then another before placing the glass on a fancy soapstone
coaster atop his desk.
He had a chance now to put his life
back together and that’s just what he intended to do. Screw Sheila.
Screw his old law firm. Two years ago, both his wife and his firm
had thrown him out as if he were yesterday’s trash.
He’d show ’em just what he was made
of.
You’re a
fool.
“Shut the fuck up,” he hollered into
the emptiness of his new office.
You’ve gotten yourself
mixed up in something really nasty.
If anybody asked him who had hired him
to represent Jerome Browning, he’d tell them the truth. He hadn’t
done anything illegal. He’d seen Browning only a couple of times,
did what he’d been paid to do—consult with his client—and that was
all there was to it.
If someone connects all
the dots, what then?
Then you’re
screwed.
He could be considered an accomplice,
couldn’t he? An accomplice to murder? No, not just one murder. Five
murders now.
But I didn’t know. I
swear to God, I didn’t know what they were planning. If I had . .
.
It was too late for ifs. He had taken
the job, taken the money, and unless somebody put the puzzle pieces
together, he’d get away scot-free, just as the others would. They
would all get away with murder.
The Steeplechase Grill and Tavern was
located in downtown Vidalia. Atop the signpost outside the
restaurant, a wooden cutout of a comic laughing horse’s head
welcomed customers, setting the tone for the casual atmosphere
inside the trendy establishment. Upon entering, the tantalizing
aroma instantly whetted Derek’s appetite.
“Nice place,” he said as the hostess
showed them to their table.
“Nice enough.” Maleah climbed up and
sat on one of the bar stools that graced a row of dark wooden
tables.
They had arrived at 12:30 P.M., prime lunchtime in downtown Vidalia, so the
restaurant was packed. He glanced around at the dark paneled walls,
lined with metal signs, and then looked up at the whirling ceiling
fans and down at the floral/leaf design in the dark
carpet.
Maleah scanned the menu hurriedly, laid
it on the table and tapped her fingers absently. Turning her head
right and then left, she searched for a waitress. “We should have
just picked up fast food and gone straight on to
Macon.”
“Settle down and relax,” Derek told
her. “It’ll take us less than two hours to drive to Macon. It’s not
as if Wyman Scudder is going anywhere. In the grand scheme of
things, taking an hour for a decent meal isn’t going to
matter.”
She heaved a labored sigh. “You’re
probably right.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sure, why wouldn’t I
be?”
“Half an hour with Jerome Browning,
playing his sick little cat and mouse game, would have an adverse
effect on anyone.”
She stared at him, her eyes speaking
for her, telling him that even though she hadn’t walked away from
the second interview with Browning without a few minor wounds, she
had won today’s game.
“You bested him, didn’t you?” Derek
grinned.
“I held my own. And yes, in the end, I
won.”
“He’ll be all the more determined to
draw blood next time.”
She nodded. “I’m well aware of that
fact.”
The waitress appeared, all white teeth,
freckled nose, and friendly attitude. “What can I get you folks to
drink?”
“Sweet tea,” Derek
replied.
“Unsweet iced tea, please,” Maleah
said.
“Y’all know what you want or do you
need a few minutes?”
Derek quickly looked over the extensive
menu. One item caught his eye.
“I’d like the Charleston Chicken
Salad,” Maleah said.
“Yes, ma’am. And you, sir?” the
waitress asked.
“A rack of baby back ribs, baked
potato, fully loaded, and onion rings.”
As soon as the waitress walked away to
place their order, Maleah made a disapproving tsk-tsk sound with
her tongue.
“You disapprove of my lunch choices?”
he asked.
“It’s your health and your arteries
that you’re clogging, not mine.”
Derek grinned. He had learned months
ago when not to argue with Maleah’s reasoning, especially when she
was right.
Despite the crowd, the service was
good—fast and accurate. The waitress returned quickly with their
drinks and a loaf of delicious brown bread coated with a hint of
sea salt.
After their meals arrived, they ate in
relative silence. Apparently Maleah thought that would save time
and allow them to get off to Macon all the sooner. Halfway through
eating the delectable ribs, Derek’s phone rang. Using the wipes
provided with his meal, he cleaned the barbecue sauce from his
fingertips, retrieved his phone and noted the caller ID. The Powell
Agency’s number at Griffin’s Rest.
“This is Derek Lawrence.”
“Hi, Derek. It’s Barbara Jean. Sanders
received some updated info on Wyman Scudder he thought y’all should
have immediately. I’ll send a complete report via e-mail attachment
later, and I’ll text the new address, too, but I thought you needed
to know that the address we had is incorrect.”
“Okay, give me the correct
address.”
She called off the new address on Third
Street in downtown Macon. “It seems that Mr. Scudder just signed a
lease on a new office and a new apartment a few days
ago.”
“You don’t say.”
“What?” Maleah asked.
He waved her off, his actions
requesting that she wait.
“Scudder has been making monthly
deposits to his account,” Barbara Jean said. “A thousand a month up
until the first of June, when he deposited fifty
thousand.”
Derek whistled softly. “Now, why would
anyone think a guy like Scudder was worth that kind of
money.”
“Sanders suggested that you and Maleah
might want to ask him.”
“Tell Sanders that he can count on our
doing just that.”
“We’re still working on tracking down
Cindy Di Blasi,” Barbara Jean said. “And after you texted us with
the info that Browning told Maleah Durham is writing his bio, which
implies this guy really could be the real Albert Durham, we had
some luck finding him. Or at least more info about
him.”
“No address or phone
number?”
“It seems Albert Durham is a recluse
and guards his privacy. He owns several homes, but keeps on the
move a lot, travels abroad, works on extended vacations, that sort
of thing. As soon as we come up with any information about where
you can find him now, I’ll be in touch. Until then, we’re working
under the assumption that the man who visited Browning is the real
Durham. The info on the ID he used to enter the prison matches that
of the real Durham, at least his physical description and date of
birth. And the address is for one of Durham’s homes.”
“Thanks, BJ.”
Barbara Jean laughed when he used the
nickname he had given her—BJ. She was a good woman. A kind and
caring woman. Sanders was a lucky man.
As soon as he slipped his phone back in
his jacket pocket, Maleah snapped her fingers in front of his face.
“Damn it, Derek, tell me.”
“Scudder has a new office, a new
apartment, and fifty grand in the bank.”
Maleah’s mouth dropped open, and then
she smiled. “You can tell me the rest on the way to Macon.” She
laid her fork on the table, removed her napkin from her lap, tossed
it alongside her half-eaten salad, and slipped off the wooden stool
and onto her feet.
Derek eyed the remainder of the
delicious ribs, gulped down a swig of iced tea, and knowing better
than to suggest they finish their lunch, he motioned to the
waitress. When she was within earshot, he said, “We need our check,
please.”
Wyman Scudder had served his purpose
and had been paid well for his services. Unfortunately, Scudder was
a liability now, a loose end that needed to be tied
up.
Scudder first; then Cindy Di
Blasi.
Albert Durham wasn’t a problem. Even if
the Powell Agency could find the reclusive author, there wasn’t a
damn thing the man could tell them.
He had known the Powell Agency would
eventually get around to interviewing Browning, which would prompt
them to check out his recent visitors. However, they had moved a
bit faster than he had anticipated. Too bad Scudder wouldn’t get to
enjoy his big payoff.
The walk from the Travelodge Suites on
Broadway Street took only a few minutes and would have been rather
pleasant if not for the rain. When he had left his hotel, the sky
had been overcast. He had gone to his car to drop off his jacket
and had picked up an umbrella. By the time he reached the corner of
Walnut and Third, heavy droplets had begun falling. Now that he had
reached the building that housed Wyman Scudder’s new law office, a
steady drizzle had set in.
After entering the lobby, he closed his
black umbrella and headed straight for the elevators. While he
waited for the Up elevator, the Down elevator opened and a man and
woman emerged. The couple was so absorbed in their conversation
with each other that they barely noticed him. Later on, if asked,
they would say they had seen a black-haired man with a neat
mustache and Van Dyke, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved plaid
shirt. And perhaps one of them would remember that he had a large
skull tattoo on his left arm.
He had learned long ago that a disguise
should be simple and the effect subtle. Sometimes little more than
a cap and a pair of glasses were needed to alter his
appearance.
Scudder’s office was on the third
floor, a corner office that faced the street. The outer door was
closed.
He knocked.
No response.
He tried the handle and the door opened
to an empty outer office. No furniture. No secretary. Scudder
hadn’t had time to acquire either.
“Hello, anybody here?” he called out,
wondering if perhaps Scudder had gone home early.
The door leading into the private
office opened. A bleary-eyed, middle-aged man with a receding
hairline and a slight paunch hanging over his belt stood in the
doorway and stared at him.
“Who are you?” Wyman asked, his speech
slightly slurred.
The idiot was drunk.
“A potential client, Mr. Scudder,” he
said using his best good old boy accent.
“Well, come right on in, Mr.—” Wyman
squinched his eyes and studied his visitor. “Have we met
before?”
“Might have, if you’ve ever been down
to Perry. I got a motorcycle repair shop.” He moved toward Wyman,
who backed up into his office as his guest approached. “You got a
motorcycle, Mr. Scudder?”
A perplexed look crossed Wyman’s face.
“No, I don’t have a motorcycle.”
He closed the door behind him. Wyman
staggered toward his desk.
“Just how can I be of assistance,
Mr.—?”
“Just call me Harold.” He reached
inside his pants pocket and pulled out the strong thin strip of
nylon cord.
Wyman lost his balance and fell toward
his desk, but he managed to steady himself by grabbing onto the
edge of the only piece of furniture in the room other than a
leather swivel chair.
“Yes, sir, Harold. Tell me why you need
a lawyer.”
“I don’t need just any lawyer. I need
you.”
Before Scudder had a chance to turn and
face him, he moved in for the kill. Quickly. Adeptly.
With the expert ease gained from years
of experience, he walked up behind an inebriated Wyman Scudder and
brought the cord over his head and across his neck before the
unsuspecting fool realized what was happening. He struggled, but he
was no match for a stronger, more agile, and sober
man.
Halfway between Vidalia and Macon, the
bottom fell out, and within minutes, Maleah could barely see the
road. The rain came down in thick, heavy sheets, all but
obliterating her view through the windshield. With little choice,
for safety’s sake, Maleah slowed the SUV to a crawl—twenty-five
miles an hour.
“Maybe we should find a place to stop,”
Derek said. “At least until the worst passes.”
“I’m okay,” she assured him. “If it
gets worse, I’ll exit the interstate.”
When he didn’t respond, Maleah knew
what he was thinking. Derek wished he was driving. Being the
superior male, he could probably use his x-ray vision to see
through the heavy downpour and his innate masculine abilities to
maneuver the SUV through floodwaters.
After several minutes, Derek ended the
awkward silence. “Do you know what puzzles me?”
“What? That I have managed not to wreck
us?”
“Huh?” He laughed. “No. You’re doing a
great job. Better than I could do. I hate driving in heavy rain.
Makes me nervous.”
Maleah almost took her eyes off the
road to glance at Derek, to see if he was mocking her. But she
didn’t. He sounded sincere, so she’d take him at his
word.
“Okay, tell me what puzzles
you.”
“Why would someone hire Wyman Scudder,
or any lawyer for that matter, to represent Jerome Browning, a man
who confessed to murder and is serving consecutive life
sentences?”
“I have no idea. You tell
me.”
“Let’s say Albert Durham is our copycat
killer. He wanted Browning to reveal all his little secrets so that
he, Durham, could duplicate Browning’s MO. Maybe simply telling
Browning that he wanted to write the story of his life wasn’t
enough incentive for Browning to open up and share
all.”
Derek was right. Damn, he was always
right! “I see what you’re getting at. Durham promised Browning a
new lawyer, maybe made him think Scudder could find grounds to
reopen his case, as far fetched as that idea is. And he promised
Browning a lady friend.”
“Cindy Di Blasi. What are the odds that
Cindy, or whatever her name is, gets paid by the
hour?”
“A prostitute? Makes
sense.”
“Another thing that puzzles me is, if
Durham isn’t the copycat killer, why a writer with Durham’s
reputation would get involved with Browning. He’s never chosen a
convicted criminal as the subject of one of his biographies. If
someone hired him to do it, why would he agree?”
“Maybe he needs the
money.”
“Possibly. But he’d have to know he was
getting himself mixed up with something illegal.”
“What if he’s being blackmailed,”
Maleah said. “Or maybe Durham really is our copycat.”
“Maybe he is. But if he is, why would
he leave us a trail leading straight to him?”
“He wouldn’t.”
“We have too many unanswered
questions.”
“You’re right. We need answers, so we
start with Scudder. We know where to find him. He may be able to
tell us something.”
“I figure Scudder will talk for the
right amount of money,” Derek told her. “But I’m not sure how much
he actually knows.”
“Hopefully the agency will dig up more
info on Cindy and Durham and once we’ve questioned Scudder and
gotten some answers, we’ll be able to move on pretty quickly to
Cindy and Durham.”
“It could take time to track them down,
especially if they don’t want to be found.”
Maleah and Derek continued discussing
the case, their conversation gradually dwindling down to an
occasional comment by the time Maleah exited the interstate. The
rain had slacked up to little more than a drizzle, but the pavement
was slick and mucky with roadway residue. Muddy water filled the
potholes and gushed across low-lying areas in the
highway.
Following GPS directions, they watched
for Mulberry Street, which crisscrossed with Third Street where
Wyman Scudder’s new law office was located.
Maleah noted the congestion ahead, but
neither she nor Derek immediately realized that the next street was
partially blocked by emergency vehicles, including a fire truck, an
ambulance, and several patrol cars. As they drew nearer, she
noticed a uniformed officer directing traffic. He stood in front of
their destination.
“What the hell’s going on?” Derek
studied the situation while Maleah slowed the Equinox to a crawl.
“Shit! It looks like something has happened in Scudder’s
building.”
“Obviously I can’t park here,” she told
him.
“I’m getting a bad feeling about
this.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
“Let me out at the next corner,” Derek
told her. “You find a place to park while I see what’s going
on.”
She hesitated, her competitive instinct
interfering with her logical thought process. You
and Derek are partners, she reminded herself. You’re playing on the same team. “Yeah,
sure.”
Since traffic was pretty much
bumper-to-bumper, it took Maleah a few minutes to maneuver the SUV
into a position where she could come to a full stop. Without
hesitation, Derek opened the door and jumped out and onto the
street. Once the door slammed, Maleah moved forward and began her
search for a parking place.
Five minutes later, out of sorts and
perspiring enough to dampen her underwear, Maleah made it back to
the cordoned-off area swarming with law enforcement and emergency
personnel. She searched the crowd of curious onlookers for any sign
of Derek, but didn’t see him. Just as she stood on tiptoe and
strained her neck in the hopes of gaining a better view, Derek came
up alongside her.
“Looking for me?”
She released a startled gasp, but
quickly recovered. “Damn it, I’m going to put a cow bell around
your neck.”
“Sorry.”
She might have believed him if he
hadn’t chuckled softly.
“Well, what did you find out about all
the hullabaloo going on?” she asked.
“A body was found on the third floor of
that building.” Derek pointed to the four-story office building in
front of them.
“Don’t tell me—”
The news crews in the crowd rushed
forward as the ME’s staff came out of the building carrying a body
bag laid out on a stretcher. Questions zipped through the air like
mosquitoes on a hot, humid summertime night as the reporters
questioned officials on the scene. Their questions went unanswered
as the officials ignored them.
“From what I’ve been able to find out,
a young woman who had an afternoon interview for a position as a
secretary for a lawyer in the building got quite a shock when she
showed up for her appointment,” Derek said. “She found her
potential employer’s body.”
“It’s Scudder, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t get anybody to verify the
victim’s name, but when I asked if the dead man was Wyman Scudder,
nobody said it wasn’t. So, yes, I’m ninety-five percent sure it’s
Scudder.”