In the Shadow of Evil (20 page)

"Don't say that."

"It's true. He was never around when I was a kid and then Mom got killed. He's blamed me for that from the beginning. It's his own guilt talking because he knows he should've spent more time at home. With Mom and me. But he was too fixated on his almighty career. It always came first."

"You've got a jaded memory, Maddox."

He jerked his arm free from George's hold. "I don't think so. I'll call you later."

Storming to the elevator did nothing to quench his desire to hit something. Hard. Really hard.

Maddox punched the button and paced while he waited. Always blamed. It was always his error.
All
his burden.

He stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid shut with a
ding.

Alone, with his eyes closed, the one familiar question clawed against his soul . . .

Was his mother's murder his fault?

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER DOLLAR. That's what her father had always said. Layla missed him more than she could've ever imagined. His quick wit. His warm smile. The pride in his eyes when she talked with him.

Brring!

Layla jumped. The new phone system was louder than the old one. It would take some getting used to. She grabbed the receiver before it could ring again. "Taylor Construction."

"Layla? It's Pastor Chaney."

She smiled. "Hi, Pastor. How're you?"

"Not so good, actually. That's why I'm calling."

Uh-oh. What now? "What can I do for you?"

"It's the plumbing at the church. We can't seem to get our issue fixed. I was wondering if you could recommend someone."

She hesitated. Bob Johnson was the best plumber she knew, hands down, but with the circumstances as of late . . .

"I know it's an imposition, and I normally wouldn't ask, but we're getting desperate. James Page was working on it, but—"

"I know. I was at the hospital with Ms. Betty and him yesterday."

"She told me that last night when I visited. It was very nice of you. James isn't looking very good. The doctors still can't find what's causing his symptoms. They're still running tests."

"I'm praying for him."

"We all are." Pastor waited a beat. "But we've got to get this plumbing fixed."

It wasn't fair not to recommend Bob. He was fair and would do a good job. And there was no proof he'd done anything unethical or wrong. "Bob Johnson. He's the plumber I contracted when we did the renovations last year."

"Layla, I don't want to speak out of turn, but Bob's been by. Twice. He can't figure it out."

If Bob couldn't figure out a plumbing problem . . . "What's going on?"

"From what Bob says, the copper pipes and tubing keep getting corroded. He's replaced them twice."

Since the renovation less than a year ago? That made no sense. "He doesn't know why they keep corroding?"

"Says he hasn't a clue. It's baffled him, and it's frustrating to the deacons. The pipes get corroded, then they blow. We have to keep cleaning up the mess. Both times Bob's replaced them, we've thought the issue was resolved. Then it happens again."

That was odd. Very odd. "Tell you what, I'll head over to the church and have a look. Maybe I can figure something out."

"Thanks, Layla. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. See you soon." She hung up the phone and rubbed her bottom lip.

What could be causing the pipes and tubing to corrode?

Differences aside, this was business. With only a moment's hesitation, she lifted the phone and dialed Bob's cell.

"This is Bob."

"Hi, Bob. It's Layla."

A pregnant silence filled the connection. Had he hung up?

"What do you need?" His voice was gruff.

"Look, Bob, I'm sorry if you felt like I was accusing you before. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."

Another space of silence.

"You heard who the body was, I suppose." Bob had softened his tone.

"No. Who?"

"Dennis LeJeune. I heard this morning."

The stickler inspector? Why would somebody have killed him and put his body in the house? "That's awful." It explained why Maddox had questioned her about him.

"I know." He inhaled sharply. "I'm sorry I was so rude to you. It's just I would never allow drugs on my sites. Ever." He blew against the phone.

She'd jumped to conclusions and hurt someone. A friend. "I know that, Bob. I'm sorry. It's just that nothing makes sense."

"Do the police have any leads?"

"Not that they've told me about. You heard my place got broken into and trashed?"

"Yeah. Sorry to hear that." He inhaled again.

"It's more annoying than anything else. It won't be over until I figure everything out."

He exhaled against the phone. "So, you're still poking around?"

"I don't have a choice." She slumped in her chair. "Maybe that newspaper reporter is right and someone's trying to send me a message."

"Don't listen to that woman's rantings. She's just trying to make a name for herself and is using you to do it."

"Maybe." She straightened and wrapped the cord around her finger. "Listen, the reason I'm calling is about the pipes at the church."

"That's something I can't figure out." Again, a sharp intake came over the line.

"Is it possible the pipes and tubing you installed were bad from the factory?"

"I thought of that. We pulled the batch records. I've used the same copper from that batch in other buildings, and we haven't had a single report of a problem. It's just in the church."

"What could cause them to corrode? And so quickly?"

"I wish I knew. It's got me baffled." Another quick intake.

Her too. If Bob couldn't figure it out, she surely couldn't. But she'd given her word to Pastor. "I'm going to run by there and see if I notice anything odd."

"Good luck. Let me know if you find something."

"I will. And thanks, Bob." She unwound the cord from her finger and hung up the phone. Was Bob having breathing problems? With his audible breathing over the phone—Wait a minute. Did Bob smoke?

She grabbed her tool belt and truck keys from her desk, then headed out the front door. It seemed like lately nothing but confusion and trouble resided in Eternal Springs.

NINETEEN

"In a moment of decision the best thing you can do is the right thing. The worst thing you can do is nothing."

—THEODORE ROOSEVELT

"HOW'S YOUR DAD?" HOUSTON asked as soon as Maddox slipped into the passenger's seat.

"Same as always." Mean and unforgiving.

His partner cut his eyes to Maddox before looking back at the road. "You're surly this morning. Didn't get enough rest?"

"Man, I slept in a chair in Pop's hospital room. Of course I didn't get enough rest." He took a sip of the now-cold coffee he'd picked up on his way into the office. "And Pop's downright cantankerous this morning. Rude."

Houston chuckled and braked for a red light. "Morning grumpiness must run in the family."

Maddox's blood ran cold, and his muscles tensed. "I'm
nothing
like him."

His partner gave him a hard stare. "Why don't you tell me how you really feel?" He inched the car through the intersection and turned.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to bite your head off." But how could he explain? He and his father were like oil and water—they didn't mix at all.

"What's bugging you?"

There it was in a nutshell—the million-dollar question. "He still blames me for Mom's murder." It hurt to speak the words, but it was time to get it all out on the table.

"You were a kid, Maddox. He can't blame you."

"He can and he does. Trust me on this."

Houston checked the street sign, then made a quick left. "And this came up this morning? At the hospital?"

"Yep. Pop wanted to talk about the night she was killed. Again." The tightening in his chest increased. "As if anything had changed." Maddox slapped the dashboard with the side of his fist. "If only they'd caught her murderer. Maybe we could understand."

"Sounds like y'all need to heal."

"Never knowing what really happened, not knowing why . . . I don't think Pop can ever let it go."

"I think that applies to you too, partner."

Maddox stared at Houston as he pulled into the parking lot at J. B. Carpentry. "How do you figure?"

Houston turned off the ignition and shifted to face him. "Isn't that the reason you became a cop? To give people justice?"

Heat stormed across his face. "No. I wanted to be a cop. Plain and simple."

Houston waggled his brows. "And why is that?"

"I dunno. Just did." The heat kicked up a notch.

"Maybe you should ask yourself when you decided to become a cop. Then you can figure out why. I'm betting it has to do with your mom's case never being solved."

"What are you, a shrink?"

Houston shrugged and opened his car door. "Just done a little more living than you." He stepped from the cruiser. "Think about it. Later. Right now, we have a suspect to interview."

Maddox followed his partner into the carpenter's office. He'd never really thought about why he wanted to be a cop. He swallowed the lump in the back of his throat. Could guilt have pushed him into his profession?

A cute brunette sitting behind a counter smiled as they entered. "Good morning. How can we help you?"

"We need to see Sam Roberson, please." Houston flashed his detective's badge.

The girl didn't seem fazed. She lifted the intercom and paged Sam over the loudspeakers. "You're in luck," she said as she hung up the phone, "the crews haven't left for their jobs this morning yet."

"Thank you." Maddox smiled at the girl. He and Houston took a few steps away from the desk, moving off to the side of the entrance. Houston slipped a piece of gum into his mouth.

Heavy footsteps rushed into the area. "Hey, Pam. Whatcha need? We're about to head out."

The girl waved toward Maddox and Houston. "Those two cops want to talk to you."

The young man's face went whiter than white.

Houston took a step toward him. "Sam Roberson?"

"Y-Yes."

Houston nodded at the front doors. "May we speak to you privately, please?" His badge glimmered on his waist.

Sam pushed open the doors and waited for Maddox and Houston. "What's this about?"

"We understand you were at Second Chances recently." Houston flipped open his notebook, popping his gum.

"Yeah. But I've been released." The kid shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"We know that." Houston rocked back on his heels. "We understand you were part of the work-release program, working with J. B. Carpentry."

"I was, then Mr. Baxter said I was such a good worker that he hired me on after Second Chances." The defiance screamed from his squared shoulders and widened stance.

"And you worked on the Hope-for-Homes site that burned down last week?"

"Yeah." The kid's eyes narrowed. "I worked directly under Mr. Baxter. I was never alone at the site or anything. I had nothing to do with it burning."

A little defensive? "We didn't say you did." Maddox shifted, moving a couple of inches closer to Sam. "But since you brought it up, why don't you tell us where you were Friday night from eleven thirty until midnight?"

His face turned chalk white. "I was out on a date."

"Who were you on the date with?" Houston asked.

"Pam." Sam nodded toward the front door. "The receptionist."

Really? She'd shown no interest that police wanted to talk to a guy she was dating. Very odd. Maddox cocked out his hip, the one his gun sat on. "Where did y'all go?"

"We ate dinner at Copeland's."

"And then?"

His face reddened. "Then we hung out at her place for a while. Watched some stupid chick flick. I left a little after midnight." Sam glanced into the glass doors. "Look, is there anything else? My crew's gonna leave any minute now, and if I'm not in the truck, I'll get left. That's a day I'll be docked."

"Sure. You can go." Houston nodded.

Sam made fast tracks around the side of the building.

"Let's go question the receptionist. Verify his alibi." Houston pocketed his notebook and reached for the door.

"Why don't you do that? I'd like to talk to Mr. Baxter. See if he has anything to share."

"Good idea."

Maddox followed Houston back into the office. He asked to speak to the owner. Pam didn't page the man. Instead she called him on the phone, nodded, then directed Maddox to Mr. Baxter's office.

The indoor-outdoor carpet in the hallway to Mr. Baxter's office was matted down, almost bare in places. Maddox knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Maddox inched open the door, stepped inside, then closed it behind him.

"I'm Jonas Baxter. How can I help you?" He extended his hand.

Maddox shook it, noticing the calluses that scraped against his palm as the man nearly crushed his hand. Mr. Baxter was a hulk of a man—almost equal to Maddox's six-one stature—and had wide shoulders. Everything about him told that he was a man who did manual labor for a living.

"Thanks for agreeing to see me, Mr. Baxter."

"I figured you'd be by." He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat." He plopped down into his own chair. The leather creaked out affectionately, like a glove's perfect fit.