SEE HIM DIE

SEE

HIM

DIE

A Novel

Debra Webb

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Debra Webb, Pink House Press

Edited by Marijane Diodati

Cover Design by Vicki Hinze

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

PINK HOUSE PRESS

WebbWorks, Huntsville, Alabama

First Edition June 2015

Mobile Police Department

Mobile, Alabama

Wednesday, June 24, 9:30 a.m.

Detective Blake Duncan tried unsuccessfully to relax as his lieutenant read over the incident report.
Incident
. Blake clenched his teeth to hold back the curse that swelled in his throat. Yeah, he’d seen an opportunity and he’d taken it. Yeah, he’d crossed the line. And by God, he’d do it again the first chance he got. The fact was he would’ve torn Randall Barton’s head off if his partner hadn’t stopped him. No matter how rich and untouchable the bastard was, Barton didn’t get to treat people like they didn’t matter.

He damned sure didn’t get to commit murder and get away with it. If it was the last thing Blake did as a cop, Barton was going to pay for taking that life.

The pain that sliced through him each time Blake thought of his brother cut him to the bone now. FBI Special Agent Luke Duncan had been gunned down on a cold New York City street 456 days ago. The hit had been ordered by Randall Barton.

“You’ve been in the department for one year this month,” Lieutenant Pete Cannon noted, hauling Blake’s attention back to him. “You had nine years with the Atlanta PD before coming here.
Nine years
,” he lifted his gaze as he spoke, “without one reprimand of any kind. Not to mention four decorated years in the Marines. What went wrong? You hadn’t been drinking. Why suddenly decide to smudge your pristine record?”

 “I guess the guy just rubbed me the wrong way.” Blake shrugged. “He shoved the valet and called him an idiot. Ask the kid. His name is—”

“I did ask him.” Cannon snapped. “He says Barton was ‘super nice’ and gave him a hundred dollar tip.”

Blake shook his head. “Of course he did.” He should have known Barton would take care of the situation. If the man could order a murder, making sure a kid with a minimum wage job for the summer kept his mouth shut would be a piece of cake.

Cannon’s gaze narrowed. “Barton insists you’d been drinking. He claims you shoved him and called him an arrogant piece of—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Blake admitted. No need for the L.T. to spell it out. “I wasn’t drinking, but I did push him. Right after I told him to leave the kid alone and he mouthed off about dirty cops.” Cannon didn’t look convinced. “Barton is the one who’d been drinking. Maybe he wanted to show me who was boss.” Blake shrugged again. “I don’t know. Ask Lutz.” Surely his partner had backed him up.

Irritation flashed in Cannon’s eyes. The department didn’t like negative attention in the media, particularly the kind that suggested police brutality. Blake should have felt bad for causing potential trouble for the department, but he didn’t. He had waited well over a year for the opportunity to rattle Barton’s cage and he’d taken it. In Blake’s opinion, every damned law enforcement agency in the southeast had looked the other way far too long where Randall Barton was concerned.

Cannon sat back in his chair and studied Blake a moment. “I did ask Lutz.”

“Then you know what really happened.”

“Randall Barton is the richest, most powerful man on the gulf coast. He’s not the kind of guy you want for an enemy, Duncan.”

Fury whipped through Blake before he could stop it. “Is that because of his generous donations to the department?” He bit his lips together too late. He’d said it. Damn it. Now who was playing the role of idiot?

“Detective, you’re on thin ice here. Don’t make me regret my decision to chalk this incident up to a misunderstanding.”

Blake took a breath and mustered up some semblance of humility. “I guess I’m still a little pissed that the rich guy gets off scot-free and I get a
smudge
on my record.”

Cannon closed the file on the incident. “Be grateful that’s all you’re getting. Around here, Randall Barton is a highly respected philanthropist. He does a lot for this department and for this community. Making him look bad is not the way to show your gratitude.”

Blake growled his frustration. “Why would I be grateful? Barton is the one—”

“Who insisted no charges be filed,” Cannon interjected. “Go. Take the day off, cool down, and get your head on straight. I don’t want to see your face again until you’ve made an attitude adjustment.”

Blake shook his head for the good it would do. “You’re wrong about Barton.”

The L.T.’s dark expression warned that Blake should have left it alone. How could he do that? He couldn’t any more than he could expect his L.T. to understand. Not one living soul knew why Blake had made the move to Alabama. Not his family back home in Atlanta and not his partner here. Not even Barton knew why Blake was here.

“I’ll be the first one to admit there are whispers from time to time,” Cannon allowed, “but there’s never been one lick of evidence that Randall Barton is anything other than what he appears to be.” He heaved a big breath. “Bottom line, no one in this city is going to risk alienating him.”

Blake nodded. “Well, that sure makes me feel better about being a cop.”

“On second thought,” Lieutenant Cannon countered, “take the rest of the week off. You’re a good cop, Duncan. I don’t want to lose you. Think about that and we’ll discuss your attitude at eight sharp on Monday morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Blake pushed out of his chair and headed for the door.

“Remember one thing, Detective.”

Blake turned to face him.

“Every community has its food chain and we all know how it works… whether we like it or not.”

Blake supposed that was as close to a concession as he was going to get from the guy. He opened the door and walked out. It was the way the world worked. It hadn’t really bothered Blake until 456 days ago.

His world had changed that March day.

He fully intended to make sure Randall Barton’s world changed, too. Obviously, there was only one way to make that happen. Blake would turn his attention back to the man’s younger brother, Austin Barton. Austin liked to live on the edge. He was a womanizing jerk. He might not be as high up the food chain as his brother, but he had a lot of chinks in his armor. Like his neglected wife. Recognizing Austin’s penchant for the dark side, Blake had watched the man and his wife for months. Two weeks ago he’d had to stop. Now, however, he had no choice. If he couldn’t go after Randall Barton directly, he’d have to go through Austin and his… wife.

Julie Barton
.

9:40 a.m.

Seven had to be her lucky number.

Julie Barton stared at her reflection in the old mirror attached to the back of her closet door and promised herself that this would be the one. It had to be. She couldn’t take another rejection.

Deep breath
.

She could do this.

Smoothing a hand over her favorite coral colored skirt, she turned slowly to get one last look at herself from the back. Coral was the new black according to the fashion world. All the young female professionals were wearing coral this season.

A few months shy of thirty was still young, wasn’t it?

Then why did she feel so old?

Julie banished the obsessive thought as she grabbed her matching jacket and purse and walked out the door. She had to get this job. Booting aside the uncertainty, she hurried along the sidewalk. Self-confidence and determination were key to proper presentation in a job interview. When she’d graduated with an MBA in hand, she’d been determined to get out there in the business world and make her mark.

Only that hadn’t happened.

“What a fool you were, Jules,” she muttered, digging into her bag.
Her keys
. Where were her keys?

She was going to be late!

She dashed back into the ground level apartment and snagged her keys off the table near the sofa. Scolding herself, she paused long enough to lock the door this time before double-timing it down the four steps that separated her stoop from the sidewalk. Since moving out on her own a mere two weeks ago, she still had to remind herself to lock the door. She had spent three and a half years living in a house where security personnel or the household staff took care of locking and unlocking all doors. She had to get back in the habit of securing her home. Though undeniably low rent, she was grateful to have a roof over her head at this point.

This morning’s interview was extremely important. She needed this job. The squeal of tires jerked her attention to the street just in time to see a truck roar away with her Jaguar in tow.

“Wait! Hey!” She raced down the sidewalk and into the street.

Too late. The truck and the Jag were long gone.

Julie faltered to a halt as desperation flip-flopped in her stomach. Austin had to be behind this. He’d threatened to take her car—the last thing she owned besides a suitcase full of clothes—if she didn’t sign the divorce papers. Apparently, he’d decided to make good on his threat.

“Damn it!”

She threw up her hands in frustration. What was she supposed to do now? She glanced around the tumbled down neighborhood. She was new and didn’t really know anyone. Getting a taxi could take forty-five minutes to an hour. She didn’t have that kind of time. Apprehension tightened her chest.

Her gaze fell on her neighbor’s decades old Buick. She was sort of acquainted with Mrs. Deerman, the little old lady who lived in the apartment next door. Of course, she had met the landlady, Mrs. Allison. Julie snorted. The landlady was too chintzy to see that the building was kept up much less to help out a tenant in a pinch. Her neighbor was clearly her best bet. Julie was moving toward Mrs. Deerman’s apartment before the idea fully meshed in her brain. A ride was a ride, wasn’t it? Helping her would be the neighborly thing to do. As far as Julie could tell, Mrs. Deerman rarely left her apartment. She surely wouldn’t miss the car for a few hours.

Julie rapped on the door, checked her watch, and grimaced. No time to call and yell at her soon-to-be-ex or to consider what a jerk he was. She would have plenty of time for that later.

The apartment door opened a crack and a feeble voice snapped, “No solicitors!”

“Mrs. Deerman, it’s me, Julie. I moved in next door week before last.”
God, let this woman be the sympathetic sort.
“I have a job interview this morning. Could I possibly borrow your car for a few hours? I’ll gladly pay you or fill up the tank.”

Julie held her breath, issuing another silent prayer that her neighbor would be feeling generous this morning. It rankled that her soon-to-be-ex had put her in this position. How was it he had seemed so wonderful at first?

“Was that your car the tow truck took away?”

Jesus, she didn’t have time for this or to be appalled that her neighbors had all likely watched her car being removed from the premises. She’d be the talk of the complex by noon. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so. I sure could use a ride to my job interview. I really need this job.”

“Couldn’t make those hefty payments, eh?” The old woman squinted up at Julie through coke bottle lenses. “You young folks want it all right now. Just have no patience.”

“My—” Explaining that her husband was a first class jerk was too complicated. “That’s why I need the job,” she said humbly and with more patience than she thought she still possessed.

Mrs. Deerman grumbled something Julie didn’t catch before disappearing into her apartment. Julie mentally crossed her fingers and hoped that since Mrs. Deerman had left the door open she intended to return with the car keys.

When she shuffled back to the door and dangled the keys in Julie’s direction, she almost hugged her. “Go light on the gas pedal,” Mrs. Deerman warned, “she’s got a hair trigger. They made ‘em that way in the early 70’s, you know.”

“I’ll be extra careful.” Julie took the keys before the woman could change her mind and shouted thanks over her shoulder as she bounded down the sidewalk.

Fifteen minutes. She only had fifteen minutes, but she could make it.

Julie took every short cut she knew driving like a maniac to get to the downtown address with two minutes to spare despite the new street construction that appeared to have popped up overnight.

Parallel parking the faded gold Buick required an extra minute. She hurried away from the car and didn’t slow down until she reached the main entrance of Wolff, Inc. Though relatively new, Wolff, Inc. was already one of the top 100 accounting firms in the country. Taking a slow, deep breath she gathered her composure and entered the soaring contemporary building.

Twelve floors. Each dedicated to the prestigious Fortune 500 business. Getting in on the ground floor of this company would give her a secure future—something she never again wanted to be without. She’d learned that harsh truth the hard way the past few weeks. A woman should never pin her hopes and dreams on a mere man. It simply wasn’t smart.

“Good morning,” she said to the receptionist behind the span of glass that served as her desk and sported the company’s stylish infinity logo. “My name is Julie Barton. I have an interview at ten with Mr. Preston.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten on the dot.
Yes
. She’d made it.

“One moment,” the receptionist said with a practiced smile.

While the woman behind the desk made the necessary call, Julie adjusted her jacket and tucked her hair behind her ears. She considered checking her lipstick but didn’t want to be applying it when her name was called.

“Ms. Barton.”

Julie turned to face the man who’d spoken and produced a wide smile. Mr. Ritter, the personnel officer. “Good morning, Mr. Ritter.” She offered her hand, which he promptly gave a brisk shake.

“Good morning to you,” he enthused. “Mr. Preston is eager to meet with you.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him as well,” she enthused right back. “I’m impressed with Wolff, Inc.’s reputation and five-year plan.” She’d done her homework. The company had outlined an ambitious five-year plan on its website.

This would be the one. She could feel it.

Mr. Ritter chattered on about the unprecedented expansion of the company as he directed her down a corridor and to the elevators. Julie inserted the appropriate responses as he spoke. In her experience men like Ritter preferred hearing themselves speak.

When they reached the seventh floor, he introduced her to Mr. Preston, the head of the audit department, and Julie launched into her best effort to impress the man. She might not have any work experience, considering she had married right out of grad school, but she had an MBA with a concentration in accounting and a perfect 4.0 on her transcript. Surely that would count for something.

Fifteen minutes into the interview and Julie understood that her stellar academic record was far from enough.

“Ms. Barton,” Preston said finally, bracing his elbows on his desk and clasping his hands together as if he intended to pray, “let me be perfectly honest with you.”

Maybe she was the one who needed to pray. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers clutching the arms of her chair. “Please do, Mr. Preston.”

“You have no professional experience,” he said flatly.

She swallowed at the lump rising in her throat. “Yes, sir,” she replied and almost cringed at the way her voice quavered. “My husband preferred a stay-at-home wife.” God, how lame that sounded, but it was true. The only work he’d wanted her to be involved with was keeping up with his social calendar and the occasional fund raising function. She wished she had a nickel for every time he’d told her that her only job was to be her beautiful self. His words had sounded so romantic in the beginning. What a fool she’d been.

“Though you have the excellent academic credentials, it would be difficult to justify your hire into our management program when I have a dozen other applicants with significant work histories.”

“I understand completely,” she hastened to say. “I was actually hoping to be considered for the entry level position. It’s my understanding the position requires no professional work experience.”

His eyebrows winged up his forehead. “Oh, I’m afraid you’re quite overqualified for that position. We generally select applicants who are still working toward their MBA.”

Her grip tightened on the lavishly upholstered arms of her chair, keeping her seated when she wanted to fly to her feet and rant at the injustice of his words. “I can assure you I would be more than happy with an entry level position, Mr. Preston. I fully understand that my lack of experience is a liability. I’m prepared to accept a much lower salary.”

He leaned back in his chair and removed his glasses. As she watched, her heart hammering against her sternum, he carefully cleaned each lens with a handkerchief from his jacket pocket before he responded. “I certainly empathize with your position. To be quite frank, Ms. Barton, our company prefers the fresh, aggressive new graduates for our entry level positions, if you get my meaning.”

Julie wilted. She got his meaning all right. It was remarkably simple. She was not what they were looking for. The rest of the conversation was lost on her. She was too busy struggling to accept another rejection. Mr. Preston showed her to the elevator and Mr. Ritter met her in the lobby on the first floor to see her out.

And that was that.

Moving on autopilot with her stomach hovering somewhere in the vicinity of her shoes, Julie climbed into the old Buick and slammed the door. Three tries were required to get the dilapidated door to stay closed. She shoved the keys into the ignition and fired up the engine.

She didn’t get the job.

Under experienced.

Overqualified.

Screwed
.

She stomped on the gas pedal and the Buick rocketed into the street. The unexpected lunge flung her back against the seat, but an abrupt stop sent her hurling forward. Only her firm grip on the steering wheel kept her head from banging the windshield as the crunch of metal registered in her brain.

A car.

Red.

Sporty.

“Oh, hell,” she hissed, dread expanding in her chest. She’d rear-ended a shiny red sports car. Her eyes widened when a tall, broad-shouldered man climbed out of the Mustang. Just her luck.

Swallowing back her apprehension, Julie shoved the gearshift into Park and scrambled out of the Buick. Her legs felt rubbery beneath her. “I’m so sorry,” she offered, her voice climbing toward hysteria. “I... I’m not used to driving this car.”

Mrs. Deerman’s words about the hair trigger accelerator rang in her ears. Her gaze swung to the front end of her neighbor’s car and relief rushed through her. Thank God there was no damage. The damn thing was like a tank.

When her attention landed on the other vehicle, a groan escaped her lips. The car looked brand new and the rear bumper was smashed. What a mess!

“My sentiments exactly,” the man said. He fished into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “I’ll get a traffic cop over here so we can get a report.”

“No!”

His hand stalled halfway to its destination, he stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

“I mean...” She moistened her lips and struggled to steady herself. “There’s no need to call the police.” She made a pathetic sound that was meant to be a laugh. “You give me your name and number and I’ll give you mine. I’d prefer to keep this between us.” She cleared her throat and gestured to his car. “I’ll pay for the damages.”

The deep, chocolate brown gaze belonging to the man towering over her narrowed suspiciously. He had nice eyes, she thought before she could shake off the silly notion. Nice, but still suspicious.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Nice voice, too. Deep, smooth. Sexy. Julie blinked and gave herself another mental shake. This ridiculous reaction had to be shock. She was on the verge of divorce, couldn’t get a job, and she’d just damaged the man’s car. Worse, she had no idea if she even still had insurance.

The urge to cry hit her hard. She blinked it back, determined to avoid further humiliation. “Please, I don’t want to involve the police or insurance companies. I’ll take care of everything.”

He scratched his head, drawing her attention to hair that was thick and dark. Great hair. She cringed. Why did she keeping doing that? Focus, she ordered, battling the dizzying emotions whirling inside her head.

“This looks expensive,” he said as he studied the rear end of his no doubt fully equipped Mustang. “I think we should play this by the book.”

Damn it! She didn’t want her name on any kind of negative reports until the divorce was over. The Bartons were well connected. Austin would use anything he could find against her. She peered up into the man’s face—such a handsome face. Good Lord. She was hopeless. “Look, mister, give me a break here, would you? I’ll pay for the damages. You have my word. I just don’t want to involve the cops.”