Jack Davis Mystery - 01 - Shakedown (26 page)

“It’s about your ex-husband.”

“What about him? I’ve already answered your questions about him.”

“There’s been a new development,” I said.

“What? Did he screw somebody else?”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“How’s that?”

“He’s dead. He hanged himself last night. I didn’t know that when I was here this morning. The prison probably won’t notify you since ex-spouses aren’t considered next of kin. I didn’t want you to find out what had happened watching TV or reading the newspaper. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Rice looked at me, looked away, held herself, and shuddered. Her cell phone fell from her hand into her lap. She didn’t speak, cry, or moan. She was as silent as if she’d been struck dumb, looking at me again, finding her voice.

“Thomas would never kill himself. There must be some mistake.”

“I wish there were. Let’s go inside. You can call the prison. Ask for the warden. He’ll tell you.”

I extended my hand again. This time she took it. Her hand was cool and limp. She walked slowly to the door, slipped the key in, turned the lock, punched in the code that turned off the alarm, and led me into the kitchen.

Copper pots hung in a rectangle above a black marble island. Hardwood ?oors gleamed. The light was soft, bright, and indirect. The ?owers were freshly cut.

The light on her phone was blinking, the digital readout saying she had one new message. She pushed the button to play the message. It was from the prison, a woman identifying herself as the warden’s secretary asking her to call as soon as possible. Her eyes were wide, almost wild. She fumbled for paper and pen, trying to write the number down, but the message ended before she could.

She turned to me. “I didn’t get all of it.”

I replayed the message, writing the number down. I dialed and handed her the phone.

“This is Jill Rice,” she said to the secretary. “You left me a message.”

She waited a moment and then identified herself again.

“Yes, Warden. This is Jill Rice. My husband is Thomas Rice,” she said, retaking her vows.

She listened, slumping against the counter before sliding onto a kitchen chair.

“Thank you. He was a good man. Things just got away from him at the end,” she said.

I took the phone, hanging it up for her.

She wiped the corners of her eyes. “The warden said that Thomas listed me as next of kin when he first arrived at the prison. They told him that an ex-spouse didn’t qualify. He said he didn’t care. He said that I’d always be his wife.”

Death doesn’t settle easily or quickly. I’d learned from delivering news of a loved one’s death that I couldn’t instantly turn a shattered survivor into a good witness. Some people fall apart. Others are brave in public and grieve in private. Others refuse to mourn. They accept their loss as the penalty for their sins or they assign it to God’s master plan, something beyond their understanding.

Jill Rice, sitting at her kitchen table in her designer tennis set with pinot noir on her breath, was suffering the death of her husband. Her shoulders were slumped, her chin hung toward her chest. Minutes ago, she had been harsh and unforgiving toward him. It was too soon to tell whether she felt worse for him or for herself.

I wouldn’t tell her that he’d brought this on himself. I wouldn’t tell her what someone had told me when Kevin died, that he was in a better place. I wouldn’t try to justify Thomas Rice’s death or her suffering because there was no justification for such things. No one could justify Kevin’s death to me because that would have somehow made it okay. And if we can justify the death of an innocent child, we can justify anything.

So I joined Jill Rice at her table and told her again that I was sorry for her loss. I asked her if I could get her a glass of water or anything else and didn’t push when she said no. Then I waited, though I didn’t have the time.

After a while she lifted her head in my direction. “What do you want from me?”

“Do you have any idea what could have led to your husband’s death?”

“You mean do I know why he killed himself?”

“If that’s what happened.”

She straightened, a new shock wave rippling through her face. “What are you saying?”

“Did the warden tell you whether Thomas left a note?”

“I was afraid to ask, but he said they didn’t find one.”

“Most people who commit suicide do it in private. If they’ve really made up their minds to kill themselves, they don’t want someone talking them out of it. If you’re in prison, you do it in your cell when your cellmate isn’t there, not the laundry.

“What are you saying? That Thomas didn’t kill himself? That he was murdered?”

“I don’t know. When I saw him yesterday he was frightened of something and I think it had to do with the sale of this house. He wouldn’t say what it was, only that I couldn’t help him.”

“All I know about the sale of the house is what he told me.”

“Colby Hudson claims that you called the FBI office not long ago asking if anyone would be interested in buying your husband’s car at a great price and that he just happened to take the call. When he bought the car, he said that you offered to also sell him the house for a lot less than it was worth. When he asked you why, he says you told him that you were doing it to get even with your husband. Is any of that true?”

“Not a word of it. I told you. Thomas set the whole thing up before he went to prison. Did Colby Hudson have something to do with my husband’s death?”

“Five people were killed the other night in a drug house in Kansas City, Kansas. Two nights ago, another drug dealer was shot to death in the Argentine rail yard. Colby Hudson was working on both of those cases. Last night, your husband either committed suicide or was murdered. Colby was connected to your husband. I don’t know how or why, but he is the only common link to all of the victims.”

“What does he have to say about all of this?”

“When we find him, we’ll ask him.”

“I see.”

Rice rose from the kitchen table and walked into the den. Bookcases lined one wall, although there were more crystal figurines, lacquered boxes, and other knickknacks than there were books. Photographs framed in silver were interspersed among the other decorator-inspired keepsakes. There was one of an older couple, the woman faintly resembling Jill, another of four small children who I guessed to be nieces and nephews, and others of people whose connection to her I could only speculate about.

She reached for the top shelf, pulling down a photograph that had been pushed to the back where it was barely visible. She brushed the dust from the glass and rubbed the silver frame with the hem of her skirt, holding it up long enough for me to catch a glimpse of her wearing a wedding gown and Thomas Rice in a tuxedo before she pressed it against her chest and turned toward me.

“When we arrested your husband, I’m sure our agents confiscated all of his financial records.”

“Boxes of them and the computers he had at the office and at home.”

“Did we ever give any of those records back to you?”

She cocked her head, surprised at the question. “As a matter of fact, yes. My accountant couldn’t prepare my tax return without them. He told the U.S. Attorney’s office what records he needed and they sent him the information. He put it all on his computer and e-mailed it to me. He had to get an extension so I could file my return after April 15th. Everything was finally taken care of about a month ago.”

“Did you keep the e-mail with the records?”

“I didn’t keep the e-mail, but I did download the records to my computer.”

I pulled the ?ash bar Joy had given me from my pocket. “May I copy those records?”

She pulled her shoulders in close, apprehensive again. “Why? If you’re an FBI agent, you should be able to get them from the U.S. Attorney’s office.”

“Mrs. Rice, I’m not officially assigned to this case. In fact, I’m not officially assigned to anything right now. I’m looking into this on my own.”

“Why aren’t you officially assigned to anything right now?”

“I’m on medical leave.”

I started shaking, not as bad as before, more like I’d just put a quarter in a vibrating bed in a motel that rented rooms by the hour. I closed my eyes, opening them when I’d gotten my money’s worth.

Her eyes were narrowed, her brow furrowed. “What makes you do that?”

“I don’t know, but until I do and can make it stop, I’m not officially assigned to anything.”

“Then why are you running around pretending to be a police detective and asking me all these questions?”

“Colby Hudson brought someone to see your house the other night. Were you here?”

“Yes. He brought a nice-looking young woman. She wasn’t wearing a ring, but he was acting like the house was as much for her as it was for him.”

“Did he introduce her to you?”

“I’m sure he did, but to tell you the truth, I’m terrible with names.”

“Her name is Wendy Davis. She’s my daughter and she’s missing. I’m trying to find her.”

Rice looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time and then returned the photograph to its spot, leaving it near the edge of the shelf where she could see it.

“My computer is downstairs.”

It was close to six o’clock when I left Jill Rice’s house. I worked the phone while navigating rush-hour traffic to Pete & Mac’s to pick up Ruby.

I called Marty Grisnik to ask if he’d heard from Troy Clark. I called Ammara Iverson to find out when Troy was going to drop the hammer on me and to find out whether she had any leads on Wendy and Colby. I called Joy to ask whether she’d talked with Wendy’s friend from work.

I called Kate to make certain she was still on for seven o’clock tonight, not certain whether I was. Wendy was missing and finding her was the only thing that mattered. That Kate could possibly help me by sorting out what I knew from what I suspected was reason enough to keep our date. The earlier promise of the weekend had vanished with Wendy’s disappearance even as I remembered how it felt to kiss Kate, hold her close, and imagine holding her closer.

Wendy wasn’t the only complication. The anticipation of being with Kate butted heads with my confused feelings for Joy, who’d reappeared, not as the woman I’d fallen in love with or the one whom I’d stopped loving, but as someone else, someone who’d come back to me when I needed her, reborn and not asking for anything in return.

I called Wendy, hoping she would answer, tell me she was fine, and make fun of me for my fears. I’d find a way to tease her in return and apologize for my gaffe with Kate. We’d both laugh and I would stop shaking.

Wendy didn’t answer and neither did any of the others. The messages I left were like a net I’d thrown into the water. It was wet and empty when I hauled it in.

Ruby was glad to see me, shaking her short tail faster than I shook on a bad day. I let her in the car and rolled my window down. She parked herself in my lap, front paws on the door, nose in the wind. Of all the things I needed at the moment, a dog that I had to drop off and pick up at day care wasn’t on the list. But she imposed a normalcy on my life, making me responsible for her, forcing me to adjust my needs to accommodate hers.

I had never done that with Joy and Wendy. They always had to adapt to me, the city where I was assigned, the hours I kept, the things I couldn’t tell them about what I did. I could explain all of that to them and they would acquiesce, but Ruby was not impressed. She wanted to eat, play, and sleep and not necessarily in that order. It was my job to jump through her hoops and I had to admit that even with everything else that had fallen in my lap this week, I liked my new job.

Marty Grisnik was parked in front of my house when I got home. He got out of his car and followed me into the garage just as I had followed Jill Rice into hers. For a moment I had a hollow feeling in my gut that he was going to tell me Wendy was dead the same way I had told Jill about her husband. I started breathing again when he didn’t.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Grisnik said.

“I left you a message at your office.”

“I’ve been out.”

“You hear from Troy yet?”

“From him and Special Agent in Charge Ben Yates and that jackleg U.S. Attorney Josh Ziegler and my chief. The only person I haven’t heard from is the pope and that’s probably only because my line has been busy and there’s not enough of my ass left to chew out to make it worth His Holiness’s while.”

“I’m really sorry. How bad is the fallout?”

Grisnik shrugged. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve got broad shoulders. The chief will yank my chain. I may end up with a nastygram in my personnel file, maybe get a few days unpaid vacation, but that’s it. I know where too many bodies are buried for them to bust my chops too bad.”

“You’re a standup guy, Grisnik. I appreciate it.”

He raised his hands. “Don’t appreciate so much. I did what you told me. I gave you up in a heartbeat, told them it was all your idea. My chief will give me some cover even if he has to take his shots at me in public, but you’ve got no friends on your side of the aisle.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?”

“Yeah. Figured it wouldn’t come as any surprise to you but I wanted to give you a heads-up anyway.”

“I appreciate that, too, but you didn’t have to drive all the way out here.”

“I like the drive. Lets me clear my head. See what I’m missing out here in cupcake land. I did some nosing around with some people I know up at Leavenworth. Word is Tommy Rice was done as a favor.”

“Who asked for the favor?”

“I didn’t get a name, only that it went with a badge. Sounds like your runaway agent has a long reach.”

“The guy who did it, he’s been charged?”