STATE OF BETRAYAL: A Virgil Jones Mystery (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 2) (7 page)

Virgil didn’t answer. “You got a
little time to spare?”

Murton looked at his watch. “Maybe.
How much time are we talking about?”

“Probably an hour or so. I’ve got
something to show you.”

But Murton had never been the kind
of guy to let someone get the drop on him. “You know what I was just thinking?”

“What?”

“Those Underdog cartoons we used to
watch when we were kids?  Do you remember what Underdog did just before he
chased down the bad guys?” He was smiling when he asked the question. It took
Virgil a minute to remember, but when he did, he smiled as well. “That’s right,
Jonesy. He popped a pill. It’s what gave him his power.” He took a drink of his
coffee, stood from the table and said, “So, where we going?”

8

__________

T
he
Governor’s Chief of Staff, Bradley Pearson and Executive Director of the
state’s lottery, Abigail Monroe, sat across from each other in the living room
of Monroe’s condo. Their conversation had deteriorated to the point where they
were hissing at each other like a couple of alley cats. Pearson pointed his
finger at her. “Let’s not forget who got you this job, Abby.”

“How could I, Bradley? You remind
me every time you want to get laid.”

Two years ago, the position of executive
director opened up when the then current director—Abigail Monroe’s
soon-to-be ex-husband, Lee, opened up one too many bottles of scotch before
taking his car out for a little spin. He drove the car—a sporty little
Mini Cooper convertible—right off the road and through two backyards
before he stopped. Unfortunately for Lee Monroe, what stopped him was the
in-ground pool in the third yard. The Mini slid right into the deep end of the
pool at three-thirty in the a.m. and sank just slightly slower than a lead
balloon. As any good drunk driver would tell you, the formula for survival in
this type of situation was simply one of time divided by lung capacity. Regrettably
for Monroe—a two pack a day bureaucrat—he was short on both and the
math didn’t work to his advantage when he couldn’t get his seatbelt unbuckled.
He was dead before the pool owner crawled out of bed and dialed the third digit
of 911.

Over the course of the two days
that followed Lee Monroe’s accident, he was buried and properly mourned by
Abigail, a process that took the better part of two full minutes and even that was
about a minute and a half longer than she would have liked. With that
accomplished, Abigail set her sights on her dead husband’s job. She used every
tool in her bag—ample tools that they were—to secure the position. Besides,
who could possibly object to the grieving widow coming to the aid of the state,
not to mention its people in their time of need? She might not have been the
best candidate for the job, but Abigail knew someone who could help her with
that.

It didn’t take long before she had
her hooks in Bradley Pearson, who, to his discredit, melted just a tad slower than
a candy bar on the sidewalk in the middle of July at high noon. Pearson lobbied
for Monroe’s appointment long and hard with the governor, the investigation
into Lee Monroe’s death was quietly set aside—a drunk is a drunk after
all—and at the end of the process, the appointment was hers.

The end of the process also meant
the end of her romantic involvement with Pearson. Monroe had what she wanted
and Pearson wasn’t it, not that he ever had been. Unfortunately for Pearson,
he’d been a little too busy to notice. After Monroe got the job, Pearson had
quietly called in every single political favor he was owed and had the state’s
legislature attach a provision on to a highway expansion bill that steered
unclaimed lottery winnings into a fund designed to help pay for the completion
of the state’s first private prison in neighboring Hendricks County. Monroe
didn’t care in the slightest. Her job was to take the money in. What the state
did with it wasn’t her concern.

What was her concern though was the
bomb Pearson had just dropped on her, said bomb being that her head programmer,
a young man by the name of Nicholas Pope had just been murdered. “It’s too much
scrutiny, Abby. The police, not to mention the press are going to be all over
this.”

Abby shook her head. “Try to get a
grip on yourself, Bradley. We have no involvement in Pope’s murder, you know
that. Besides, he was a pot hound, a doper. I overlooked it as much as I
possibly could because of his talents, but in the end, he got himself killed
over it. Another drug deal gone bad.”

“Oh for Christ sake Abby, nobody
gets killed over a little weed. Even I know that and I know the cops know it
too. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen…the police are going to look at this
and when they do they’ll discover that not only was I present when Jones shot
James Pope, they’ll discover my connection to his son, Nicholas, through you.
Some hard questions are going to be asked and if we don’t get in front of this
there will be consequences. Serious consequences. We need to get on the same page
here, Abby. We need some damage control.”

“We are on the same page, Bradley.
What else can we do? It really is just one big coincidence.”

Pearson stood up. “I don’t believe
in coincidence. I’m managing this thing on my end. What I need you to do is to
not make any moves unless you run them by me. Can you do that for me, Abby?
Both our careers are on the line here.”

“How are you managing it?”

“That doesn’t concern you.”

“You’re asking for my cooperation,
but you’re not willing to tell me what you’re doing?”

“It’s not that deep.”

“Then tell me.”

Pearson sighed. “I knew the Major
Crimes Unit would be investigating this mess. I’ve had the Governor relieve
Jones of his position. It wasn’t that hard. He’s got a little drug problem of
his own. I can control the new guy.”

“You’re sure?”

Pearson tugged at an earlobe and
wiggled it back and forth. “He’s already on the hook. I’ve been doing this a
long time, Abby. There isn’t much that gets by me. Maybe you should remember
that.”

Monroe stood from the sofa, walked
to her front door and held it open. When Pearson moved through, she brushed her
hand lightly across the back of his neck. “I got by you though, didn’t I?”

He turned to say something, but
Abby closed the door on him.

9

__________

V
irgil
let Murton drive and gave him turn-by-turn directions. When they turned the
last corner Murton pulled his car to a stop in front of Mason’s house, the same
house where they’d both grown up. They sat for a few minutes before Murton glanced
over with a ‘what gives?’ look on his face. “Let’s go inside,” Virgil said.

They got out of the car and made
their way up the front walk. The house was a small three-bedroom bungalow with
a detached garage and wood siding that Mason had always kept meticulously white
with regular coats of paint every other year. When they stepped onto the porch
Virgil watched as Murton ran his hands across the railing next to one of the
support beams. He looked out at the front yard and Virgil knew, or at the very
least suspected what he was thinking about.

It had been the year they redid the
front lawn…the very next summer after the fire. Virgil and Murton had only been
friends for a year or so, but the foundation of a lifelong bond had been poured
and they both knew it.

Virgil’s father had just been elected
as Marion County Sheriff and to say that he was a busy man was an
understatement. His days were long and his nights held an unpredictability that
only a mainline gambler could appreciate. As a result of his hectic schedule he
had let the front lawn go without fertilizer that spring and by the time the
heat and humidity of the summer arrived, the crabgrass had taken hold so wide and
deep that he could barely push the lawnmower through it without stalling the
engine. When he’d finally had enough and decided it was time to address his own
disregard, he did so with a vengeance.

He began with a rented sod cutter
and ripped out the entire front lawn right down to the dirt. Murton and
Virgil—both of them only seven years old at the time—helped him
carry the heavy pieces of cut weed to the end of the drive. It was a dirty,
laborious job that took most of the entire weekend. On Sunday, with freshly
raked dirt in place and leveled just so, they began to plant the new seed. The
seed had to be sown by hand and then raked into the soil. They were almost
finished when Virgil saw Murton’s father, Ralph Wheeler, walking down the
middle of the street, right toward them. He wore his work clothes—a dingy
T-shirt beneath blue and white striped overalls, the fingers of his work gloves
sticking out of a side pocket. He walked across the freshly raked front yard as
if Mason’s efforts of the past two days or their intended results meant nothing
to him. Virgil and Murton were at the other end of the yard so they couldn’t
hear what was said between their fathers, but Virgil had an impression that
something was terribly wrong, the first indication when Mason extended his hand
to Murton’s dad, then slowly let it drop to his side when his greeting was not
accepted. Instead, Murton’s dad covered his face with both his hands, let out a
sob and then fell to his knees in the dirt. Virgil’s mother had just walked out
onto the porch carrying a tray that held a glass pitcher of lemonade and
plastic cups and when she saw Murton’s dad go to the ground and heard his sobs,
she dropped the tray and ran, not to the men, but to the boys. She had no idea
what was happening, but she knew right then and there that her job was to
protect the children at whatever sort of drama was playing out before them. Virgil
and Murton watched over their shoulders as Virgil’s mom ushered them up the
porch steps and past the broken glass of the lemonade pitcher, their fathers still
in the front yard, out by the street. Murton’s dad was on his knees and he was
bent forward from his waist, his forehead pressed firmly into the dirt. He was
wailing and sobbing and when he raised his head from the ground his face was covered
with dirt and grass seed that had mixed in with the spittle that ran from the
corner of his mouth. What he said next was something no young child should ever
have to hear.

By the time they made it inside,
Murton was already crying.

__________

Almost a full week
went
by
before Virgil saw his
friend again. The funeral and burial was simple, attended by only a handful of
mourners. Afterward, when Virgil tried to speak with him, Murton turned and ran
away without saying a word, his sense of loss and anger pointed in the only
direction that felt safe. This went on for just over a month. The very next night
Virgil found out what kind of people his parents were.

Shortly after dinner the three of
them walked the few blocks over to the city park where Ralph Wheeler coached
Murton’s soccer team. The team played twice a week but this would be the first
time that Murton played since the passing of his mother. It was the first time
his father would return to coach as well.

The night was mild, filled with the
promise of sportsmanship and laughter, and regardless of the tragedy Murton had
been forced to endure, Virgil remained hopeful that the night might be a
turning point in his friend’s life, a frame of reference he might one day be
able to look back on and recognize when his healing began. As it turned out
that is exactly what happened, just not in a way anyone expected.

Virgil’s mother carried a blanket
so they could all sit in the grass to watch the game and his father carried a
picnic basket filled with fresh fruit and a jug of ice water and white plastic
cups. The lights were on at the corners and midpoints of the field, the moths and
other winged creatures already starting their dance around the lights as the
three of them settled in to watch the game.

Murton stood at the side of the
field, his father towering over him. They were deep in conversation about
something, the opposing team waiting patiently at midfield. Ralph Wheeler was
saying something to Murton who was shaking his head back and forth so hard it
looked as if he were trying to remove a bee that had gotten tangled in his
hair. Wheeler grabbed his son first by one arm, then the other. He held him so
hard and tight that Murton was forced to stand on his tiptoes. Virgil’s mom started
to rise, but Mason placed his hand gently on her thigh and dipped his chin just
so. There was no mistaking his message. The Jones family would not get involved
with the Wheeler’s grief.

It was clear that Murton did not
want to play soccer, but his father was not having it. He pushed Murton onto
the field just past the sideline and then pushed him again to send him further
out. When Murton turned around to walk off, his father grabbed him by the
scruff of his neck, dragged him to the bench and forcefully sat him down. Mr.
Wheeler turned to walk away and then something else happened, something that turned
out to be a catalyst of change that would forever alter not just Murton’s life,
but Virgil’s family as well.

Murton said something to his father.

No one heard what was said, but
whatever it was, Mr. Wheeler was not in the mood nor the proper state of mind to
hear it. He spun around and leaned into his son’s face and began to yell at
him, his words thoughtless and cruel. Spittle flew from his lips and landed on
Murton’s face, but to his credit, Murton never looked away in fear or shame. In
fact, the more his father yelled the more defiant the look on Murton’s face.
Mason stood and began to make his way over behind Mr. Wheeler, any thoughts of
remaining uninvolved in another family’s grief quickly forgotten. But even as
he approached it was clear that Mr. Wheeler was losing steam, his words now
focused more on himself than his only child. At last he sat down at the far end
of the bench, away from Murton, his head hung low. The coach of the opposing
team walked over and said something to Mr. Wheeler that went unacknowledged
before he gathered his team and left the field.

Virgil was disappointed about the
game and embarrassed for his friend. When he called out to him, Murton turned
away as if he hadn’t heard and left the field. Virgil stood there for a few
minutes and watched him go, then helped his mom fold the blanket and gather
their belongings.

Everyone mistakenly thought the
evening was over.

__________

They hadn’t been home
more
than an hour. Mason was tinkering
with something out in the garage while Virgil helped his mother wash the dinner
dishes they’d set aside for later, after the game. Virgil had just placed the
last dish into the rack when he and his mother heard a terrible crash at the front
of the house. They ran into the living room and  discovered the large plate
glass window that fronted the porch had been shattered. Glass was everywhere
and a softball-sized rock lay in the middle of the room. When Virgil looked out
through the hole where the window used to be, Murton was in the front yard, his
small body illuminated by the mercury streetlamps that hummed overhead at the
edge of the sidewalk. He was on his hands and knees and he swept his arms back
and forth and kicked and scuffed his feet across the seeded lawn in an attempt
to do as much damage as he possibly could. Later in life it would become
obvious to Virgil that Murton wasn’t just mad because he’d lost his mother, he
was mad at his best friend because of what Virgil had…two parents who loved him
and a future that was both bright and secure. Virgil and his mom went out on
the front porch just as Mason came running around the corner of the house. Murton’s
hands and face were covered with a mixture of dirt and snot and tears and
Virgil watched as his father sat down on the ground next to him, wrapped Murton
in his arms and held him on his lap until he cried himself out. They stayed out
there for a long time, deep in conversation, until finally Mason walked him
inside, his massive arm around Murton’s shoulders. Murton’s face was red, his lower
lip was split open and he had the beginnings of a shiner on his left eye. They
all stood there for a beat looking at each other before Virgil’s mom took
Murton by the hand and said, “Come on honey, let’s get you a bath. We’ll put
some antiseptic cream on your lip and get you an ice pack for your eye. Hey, I’ve
got an idea. You can wear a pair of Virgil’s pajamas and spend the night with
us. How does that sound?”

Murton followed her upstairs
without answering and when Virgil looked at his father he saw the muscles of
his jaw were flexed with tension. “I’ll be right back,” Mason said. An hour
later he walked through the door carrying a small canvas-sided suitcase. The
knuckles of both his hands were bloody and swollen, but other than that he
didn’t have a scratch on him. “Murt will be staying with us for a while,” he
said. “What do you think of that, Son?”

Virgil didn’t remember if he
answered his father or not, but he remembered hugging him, his face buried in
his shirt, his boney arms wrapped around Mason’s massive body, Murton’s little
suitcase banging against his side as he did.

Two days later Ralph Wheeler bonded
out of county lock-up, hopped a Southern Freight boxcar and was never heard
from again. Murton lived with Virgil and his parents until they were both grown
and left for the army.

__________

Murton had yet to turn
around.
Virgil put the key into the lock
,
opened the door then walked over to the porch railing and stood next to
his friend. “What are you thinking?”

Murton turned, his eyes dark. The
look on his face caused Virgil to take a half step back. “Simpler times my
ass,” he said. “That’s what I’m thinking.” But just as quickly he removed his
hat, wiped the sweat ring inside the band with his index finger and placed it
carefully back on his head. Then he winked at Virgil and smiled as if he hadn’t
a care in the world. “So, why are we here?”

__________

“I’ve got something for
you,”
Virgil said.

“Why didn’t you just bring it to
the bar?”

“How about we go inside?” They
walked through the front door with Murton leading the way. They were only a few
steps inside when he stopped and turned around. “What gives, Jonesy? I thought you
said you had something for me. The place is empty. Where’s all your dad’s
stuff?”

“I had the mover’s put it in
storage. You can have anything you want, Murt. Just let me know and I’ll get
you the key. I had everything stored because I thought maybe you might want
your own stuff here. You know, a way to sort of make the place your own.”

Murton visibly swallowed and opened
his mouth to say something, then closed it just as quick. He looked around the
front room, walked into the kitchen and then back out again. “What are you
saying? You’re giving me your old man’s house?”

Virgil smiled at him. “I wish I
could take the credit, but I can’t.” He pulled the deed from his pocket and
handed it to Murton. “I’m not giving you his house, Murt. My dad is. He left it
to you in his will.”

__________

They rode back to the
bar
with
little conversation. After pulling into the rear lot, Murton turned and looked
at Virgil.

“What?” Virgil said.

“I’m not sure I know what to say.
His house? It’s too much, man. I’m not going to take his house.”

“Well not to put too fine a point
on it, Murt, but it’s already yours. He left it to you, just like your
percentage of the bar. You own it, free and clear.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“What’s not to believe? He wanted
you
specifically
to have it.”

“Why?”

For reasons Virgil could not
readily explain, he found himself irritated. “Why? What do you mean why?” he
said, his voice louder than necessary. “Jesus Christ, Murt, that is a hell of a
thing for you to say to me after everything we’ve been through.” He laughed
without humor. “And people are questioning my judgment lately?” But when Virgil
saw the effect his words had on his friend he wanted to try again, except
Murton cut him off.