4 The Marathon Murders (15 page)

Jill remained cool but outwardly calm through dinner.
Afterward, she carried things into the kitchen to load the dishwasher, while
Warren and I adjourned to the living room. When we were seated, he leaned
toward me and spoke in a low voice.

“You’re a brave man,
Gunga
Din.”

I worked up a semblance of a grin.
“Thanks.”

“You sounded pretty convincing.
Maybe she’ll accept it and move on.”

“I hope so. We’ve had our ups and
downs, but we’ve always managed to work things out.”

When the phone rang, I answered one
on a table by the sofa. I recognized the voice of Casey Olson’s girlfriend. She
asked for Jill.

“It’s for you, babe,” I called out.
“Mickey Evans.”

I hung up after she answered in the
kitchen.

“Is that the girl from Hartsville?”
Warren asked.

“Right.
Jill told her to call if she ran across anything that might be helpful in our
investigation.”

“I wish she could tell us something
helpful about Kelli.”

He got his wish when Jill came in a
few minutes later, grinning. “Mickey talked to a lady newspaper reporter at the
restaurant.”

“Kelli?” Warren almost jumped out
of his chair.

“No doubt.
She said she was writing a story about the two murders.
Said
her editor in Boston was interested because an AP story said the county hadn’t
had a murder in several years.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my
knees. “What did Kelli ask about?”

“A lot of the same stuff I did.
Mickey told her about Casey’s friends. She seemed particularly interested in
the guy called
Kayjay
from
Samran
.
Mickey didn’t tell her anything about the marijuana business.”

“Did Kelli mention anything about
where she was staying?” Warren asked.

“No. And I don’t remember seeing
any motels around Hartsville. Do you, Greg?”

“The closest one is probably in
Lafayette. That’s where the
Samran
plant is located.”

“I’m going up there.” Warren rapped
a fist against his palm.

I held out my hands in a gesture of
caution. “I wouldn’t advise it tonight. You go nosing around in that area, and
if she’s there, you’d probably blow her cover. I suspect she’d be as unhappy
with you as Jill is with me.”

I checked out of the corner of my eye
and saw her raise her eyebrows in a gesture that appeared to border on a grin.
I took that as progress.

“Why don’t we all sashay up that
way tomorrow after church,” Jill said. “Isn’t it time we talked to Patricia
Cook?”

I agreed. Warren calmed down and
decided to go along with our suggestion. After he left for his motel, Jill and
I moved to the reclining love seat that faced the TV and turned on the early
evening news. I reached over to take her hand, pleased that I found no
resistance. Then the phone rang. I answered it.

“Hi, Greg,” Wayne Fought said.
“What’s this about a piece of potentially important evidence?”

I told him how I had found the
Russian cigarette pack near the riverbank. “Casey Olson’s girlfriend told Jill
that he didn’t smoke anything but pot.”

“When did you talk to her?”

“While you were
at the cemetery this morning.”

He digested that,
then
asked, “And the pack has a cigarette inside?”

“Right.
I
haven’t taken it out, so I don’t know what shape it’s in.”

“It’s possible you may have something.
We found a cigarette butt outside Bradley’s front door, but he didn’t smoke,
either. The lab guys analyzed it and said it didn’t resemble any brand they
were familiar with. If it matches your Russian cigarette, we may be onto
something.”

“Another thing,” I said, “the path
led right to the riverbank. It would be an ideal place to toss a Beretta in the
water.”

“Could you drop that cigarette pack
by TBI Headquarters tomorrow? I’ll tell them to get right on it. If there’s a
match, it might be worth sending a diver down to check beneath that ledge.”

“Okay if I take it over after
church?”

“No problem.” He laughed. “Somehow
I didn’t take you for a congregant.”

“My wife had to twist my arm to get
me there, but I kind of like it now. Let me know what you come up with. We had
already thought about calling some tobacco shops around Nashville.”

“If we get a match, I’ll take care
of that. Thanks a lot. I’ll keep in touch.”

I hung up the phone and turned to
Jill. “I think we may have made a convert.”

“To Gethsemane United Methodist
Church?”

“No.
To McKenzie
Investigations.
I’ll leave the proselytizing to you.”

“So I had to twist your arm, huh?”

I put my arm around her shoulder.
“I can’t think of anybody I’d rather have twisting my arm, babe.”

She looked into my eyes with an
expression that nearly tore my heart out. “Not even Camilla?”

“Especially Camilla,” I said and
pulled her toward me.

We were still sitting there five
minutes later when the phone rang again. I answered it.

“Mr. McKenzie?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Frank Wallace. I met
you last night at the
Rottman’s
party.”

“Right.
We
enjoyed visiting with you, Doctor. How are things going?” I covered the
mouthpiece and whispered “Dr. Wallace” to Jill.

“Actually, things aren’t going too
well,” he said.

“What’s the problem?”

“Frankly, the problem is Camilla.
She’s accused Roger of some things that simply aren’t true. She told him she
had called you over today to talk about it.”

“She’s right about that. Did she
also tell him that I declined to take part in her little investigation?”

“No. You told her that?”

“I certainly did. She wanted me to
find out who he’d been sleeping with. I told her that McKenzie Investigations
does not get involved in domestic cases. We made a firm decision against that
when we started this business.”

After a long pause, he said, “That
is interesting.”

“She told me he claimed he had gone
fishing with one of his old Vanderbilt buddies. Was that you?”

“Yes. And that’s exactly where he
was. I have a cabin on Center Hill Lake. There were four of us guys there.”

I had tilted the phone so Jill
could listen in. “I feel for him. I got the impression she can be one ruthless
character.” I decided against using the “B” word, a term I felt more
appropriate.

“Don’t be too hard on her. But,
yes, she is capable of being rather overbearing. She and her son are both
unpredictable at times.”

“You’re talking about the one we
saw last night?”

“Yes. He’s had his problems.”

“I understand they included
gambling and drugs, both expensive hobbies.”

“I imagine you’ve dealt with people
in that category.”

Jill mouthed, “Too many.”

“They perennially borrow money and
never pay it back,” I said. “When they get on the downside, they’ll do anything
to get more cash.”

“I guess
it’s
pay up or shut up in that economy.”

“Right.
The saying on the street is ‘money talks and bullshit walks.’”

Jill frowned, but Dr. Wallace
chuckled.

“Mr. Kirk
Rottman
needs to grow up. He can act terribly juvenile when he’s in one of his moods.”

“Is there a medical term for that?”

He laughed. “I think it’s covered by
that old medical adage
doctors
use when they have no
rational explanation.”

“And that would be?”

“Whatever
happens,
happens.”

Our pastor, Dr. Peter Trent, avoided the
moneygrubbing
theme Sunday morning, but he
needled
me not-so-gently
with a sermon calling for greater understanding of those with whom we disagree.
It reminded me again of the problems I’d had with Jill’s dad before he died.
Neither of us seemed able to accept the legitimacy of the other’s point of
view. Jill called it hardheadedness, which I suppose is preferable to something
like pigheadedness.

During the coffee and gabbing
session in our Sunday School classroom, I cornered John Jernigan, an accountant
who retired from United States Tobacco Company before it changed its name to
U.S. Smokeless Tobacco. They called him “
Snuffy
” in
earlier days, but I knew he didn’t like that nickname. The side of the
company’s plant facing downtown Nashville was emblazoned with “BRUTON’S SNUFF.”
Jernigan was one of our resident Civil War buffs.

“Hey, John,” I greeted him, “
guess
where I was yesterday.”

A tall, husky man with a head as
slick and brown as a dried gourd, he had a sly grin and alert eyes that
reminded me of
Telly
Savalas
as
Kojak
. “I’d guess you were hiding behind a tall
hedge somewhere eavesdropping on the bad guys.”

“Well, that, too.
But I was referring to the Battle of Hartsville. I didn’t notice much around
there to see, but they had a big plaque with a description of what happened all
around the area.”

“What were you doing up there?”

“We’re working a case with some
Hartsville implications.”

John topped off his coffee cup.
“Wouldn’t you know, I’ve been to Gettysburg and Manassas and Vicksburg and Fort
Donelson
and I don’t know how many other sites, but
I’ve never visited one that’s practically under my nose.”

“Well, there wasn’t really much to
attract your attention. What interested me was the location of the Confederate
artillery battery. They apparently fired from near where a guy was murdered
last week.”

“Hmm. Seems I read something about
those Trousdale County murders. And you’re involved in that?”

“Only
peripherally.”

He chuckled. “Better wear your
Kevlar vest around there.”

Jill walked up to tell us we’d
better find our seats and get ready for the morning’s lesson.

We picked up Warren at his motel shortly after eleven,
headed out to the TBI office to drop off the Dallas Lights pack, and stopped at
one of our favorite seafood restaurants in the
Rivergate
area. We always attended the early service at church, which improves your odds
of getting a table quickly for Sunday lunch, or dinner as it’s called in the
South.

After the waitress left with our
order—we all chose the
mahi
mahi
—Warren
looked across at us with a smile. “I’m glad to see all appears well with you
two.”

“We had a little heart-to-heart
last night,” Jill said. “I don’t expect Greg to have any more lapses in
judgment like that.”

I donned my most penitent look. I’m
sure it would have gone over well in a confessional booth. That it was sincere
seemed beside the point. If you don’t have the right look, you’re doomed.

“I will never trust another woman,”
I said.
“Other than my wife.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t
overdo it.”

“What do you propose doing when we
get to Hartsville, Greg?” Warren asked, no doubt sensing the previous subject
was best sidestepped.

“Actually, I thought we might drive
up to Lafayette first. Maybe take a look at the
Samran
plant. If there’s anybody around the place, we can try to identify this
Kayjay
person. We could also drop by the motels and ask if
the
Christian Science Monitor
reporter is staying there. Hopefully we
can get the name Kelli’s using.”

“Good idea. I just wish she’d get
in contact and let me know she’s okay.”

“Sorry, Warren.
When you’re working undercover, you make as little contact with the outside
world as possible. You never know when somebody might overhear something or
trace your calls.”

“Even with a cell
phone?”

“There are ways of tracing cell
phone calls and getting the numbers, and not just by sneaking a peak during an
unguarded moment.”

“Do you think Kelli is following up
on the
Kayjay
lead?” Jill asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Of
course, we have no idea if the guy could be involved with the murders. At the least
he should be able to shed more light on Casey Olson.”

Jill looked across at Warren. “Have
you ever encountered anything like this before?”

“Heavens no.
Murder is out of my league.”

“I’ll bet you had some murderous
experiences in Tel Aviv,” I said.

He dipped his head in
acknowledgment. “We had our share of mayhem, no doubt. I listened to a lot of
tales from Israeli pilots that would curdle your blood.”

“Do you see any way out of the
current impasse between the Arabs and Jews?” Jill asked.

“I wish I did. There are a lot of
people on both sides willing to put away old grudges, but far too many refuse
any compromise. They’re riveted to historic attitudes that have been drilled
into them from birth.”

The arrival of our food left little
interest in other than small talk. After paying the bill, we headed out to my
Jeep and started the trek to Lafayette—with the accent on the “
fay
”—in Macon County. I had checked the internet last night
and found a couple of motels along the highway into town. We traveled up U.S.
31E to Westmoreland, then east on Highway 52. We stopped at a neat little motel
on the outskirts of Lafayette. It might have been an update of a relic from an
earlier day. A room wing in front and another going off to the rear were brick,
the office entrance faced with stone beneath a canopy.

After suggesting we not overwhelm
the clerk, I headed in alone. I found a short, white-haired woman standing
behind the front counter, which was open on one end. No walled-in cage or
glass-enclosure. Evidently they didn’t feel the need for such security around
here. A small but homey lobby sat off to the right, behind it a hallway with a
cabinet containing a microwave and coffee maker.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked,
smiling. “We were full last night, but we have some rooms now.”

“I don’t need a room, thanks. I’m
looking for a woman reporter for the
Christian Science Monitor
. I
wondered if she might be staying
here?
”

“You must be talking about that
nice red-headed woman. She said she was a reporter, but I didn’t know what
newspaper she worked for.”

I smiled. “That’s probably her.
What’s her name?”

She looked down at her desk. “I
know her name is Quinn. Let’s see, here it is. Julia Quinn.
That
who you’re looking for?”

“Yeah.
You
wouldn’t happen to know if she’s in her room, would
you?
”

“She hasn’t been around the office
lately. I can call her room if you want me to.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

I waited while she picked up the
phone and dialed, gazing about as it rang.

“Sorry, no
answer.
You want to leave her a message?”

“No. That’s okay. I’ll try her
again later.”

I walked out to the car and
reported what I’d found.

Warren slumped back in the seat,
his expression a mixed bag, but mostly frustration. “At least we know she’s
still around. Maybe I should wait here, while you two go on to Hartsville.”

“Correction,” I said. “We know
she’s been here. If the situation warranted, she would simply skip out.”

“Damn!”

“I know how you feel, buddy. Our
best bet is to do whatever we can to track down those Marathon papers so Kelli
can cut the charade and resurface.”

I drove on into Lafayette, which
wasn’t all that different from Hartsville, and turned south on Highway 10. We
drove a few miles with high wooded hills on either side. After the terrain
began to flatten out, we saw a modern factory building with large American and
Tennessee flags flying out front. A prominent sign mounted on an artistic stone
base said “
Samran
, Inc.—a subsidiary of Hedrick
Industries.”