STATE OF ANGER: A Virgil Jones Mystery Series (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 1) (13 page)

When the bomb squad technicians
arrived, Virgil and Rosie showed them the safe deposit box, then walked across
the street and waited inside a coffee shop. Virgil bought two large cups of
coffee from a purple haired teen-age boy who had enough piercings on his face
to set off an airport metal detector. A college textbook sat on the counter
next to the cash register entitled ‘Ethical Issues of Molecular
Nanotechnology.’ He saw Virgil looking at the book and said, “Yeah, it’s pretty
heavy stuff, man. Did you know that it won’t be long before they’ll have
computers so small you’ll need a microscope to see them? They’ll put them
inside little capsules you can swallow that’ll cure cancer and all kinds of
shit. Isn’t that something? Say, you want cream or sugar for your joe?”

Virgil wasn’t sure which question
to answer, so he just handed him a ten-dollar bill and told him to keep the
change. When he sat down, Rosencrantz said “I almost forgot. Your boy Wheeler?
He came up blank.”

“You must have missed something
then. He’d be on record with the V.A. Plus, he was busted for assault. He did
time in Westville.”

Rosie shook his head. “I think you
misunderstood what I said. Everybody’s got something, right? A traffic ticket,
a divorce settlement, a beef with the IRS, whatever. I wasn’t saying he comes
up with no record. I’m saying he doesn’t come up at all. We checked Federal,
State, local, the service, everything. There’s nothing there, Jonesy. He
doesn’t exist. Not on paper anyway. You know how hard that is these days?”

“Yeah. It’s impossible.”

An hour later the bomb squad
technician walked out the front door of the bank and waved them over, but just
as they crossed the street and were about to enter the building a black Crown Victoria
slid to a stop behind them, it’s front tire bouncing off the curb. A young man
who looked like he had just graduated from college got out of the car and
approached the front entrance of the bank. He wore a dark blue suit under a
lightweight tan trench coat and his hair looked as if had been cut just this
morning. He walked over to where Virgil and Rosie were standing and identified
himself as Agent Gibson with the FBI.

“Is one of you Detective Donatti?”
he asked.

Rosencrantz looked at Agent
Gibson, then said, “I think what you meant to say was ‘
Are
one of you
Detective Donatti?’ You see, grammatically speaking, when asking—”

Virgil cut him off before he went
any further. “I’m Detective Jones with the Indiana State Police. Donatti works
for me. How may I help you?”

Agent Gibson peeled his eyes off
of Rosencrantz. “A request was put in earlier today for information regarding
Murton Wheeler. It had Donatti’s name attached. Wheeler is part of an on-going
federal investigation. We’d like to know why.”

“You’re federal agents and you’re
asking us why Wheeler is part of an on-going federal investigation?”
Rosencrantz said.

“No,” Agent Gibson said, a look of
exasperation on his face. “We’d like to know why you’re looking for information
on Wheeler.”

“That’s not what you said. You
said—“

“Rosie, why don’t you wait by the
box with the bomb tech?” Virgil said. “I’ll be right there.”

“Sure thing, Jonesy,” he said. But
before he walked away he turned and winked at Gibson then gave him a big smile
and two thumbs up. “Keep up the great work, dude. I sleep better at night
knowing you’re out there doing your job. I really do.”

After Rosencrantz walked away
Virgil looked at Agent Gibson and tried a little diplomacy. “I’ll be honest
with you, Murton Wheeler was a boyhood friend of mine. We grew up together and
even served in the first Gulf war with each other. It has been a number of
years since we’ve seen each other until just last night. He walked into a bar I
own, gave me a key to a safe deposit box inside this bank then disappeared out
the back. In addition, two men I’d never seen before until that very same day
were following him. I don’t know what else I can tell you. Why are you looking
for him?”

“I didn’t say we were looking for
him. I said he’s part of an ongoing investigation.”

“What exactly do you want with him
then?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to
say.”

So much for diplomacy. “Look,
Agent Gibson, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. The CEO of this
financial institution was murdered yesterday, and we’ve had several other
shootings that I now believe are somehow connected. Murton Wheeler ties in to
it somehow. Anything you can give me would be a big help.”

“Murder is not a federal offense,
Detective, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Have a nice day, then,” Virgil
said, and turned to walk away.

“We’re not done here, Detective,”
Agent Gibson said.

“Yes we are,” Virgil said without
turning around. But after a few steps he stopped and turned. “I don’t know
what’s going on with Wheeler. We were friends for a long time before he dropped
out of my life. But I’ll tell you this, Federal Agent or not, you better watch
your back. Murton is not someone you want for an enemy. I can probably help
you, if you’ll let me.” But it’s hard to get over on a Federal Agent and Gibson
had already lost interest in anything else Virgil had to say.

__________

Back inside, Rosencrantz and the
bomb tech were looking at x-rays of the inside of the safe deposit box. “It’s either
a folded piece of paper, or an envelope or two. Won’t be able to tell until we
turn the key.” When neither Virgil nor Rosencrantz said anything, the tech
shrugged his shoulders, turned the key and opened the door. Inside the box were
two letter-sized envelopes, one with Virgil’s name hand written on the front.
The tech picked up the envelope, ran the scanner over it, rolled his eyes
before handing it over, and then said, “You got a case number for my report?”

“I’ll send one over when I get
back to the office,” Virgil said.

“Good enough. Tell that Jamaican
who cooks for you I like my sauce extra hot, will you? I’ll be in tonight for
supper. Man, that’s some good shit.”

After the bomb tech walked out
Virgil asked Rosencrantz why he was so hard on the FBI agent. “Ah, those guys
flat piss me off sometimes. They strut around like their shit doesn’t stink and
every time you ask them for something they tell you they’re not at liberty to
say, but what they’re really saying is we’re just small time, you know? Those
guys wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, maybe. I applied twice to
be an agent. They turned me down both times. You think it might be my
attitude?”

“I don’t see how that could be.”

__________

The first envelope contained a
copy of a birth certificate for a female named Sidney Wells, Jr., born in May
of 1987. Virgil double-checked the spelling of the first name, then the sex of
the child. It was either a mistake, or the parents had opted to use the male
spelling of the name Sidney for their daughter. The mother’s name was listed as
Sara Wells. The line for the father’s name was blank. Virgil had no idea what
any of it meant. He put the birth certificate aside and opened the other
envelope.

What he saw made him squint and blink
back the sting in his eyes, as if he still stood in the heat of the desert over
twenty years ago, an arid wind filling the corners of his eyes with grains of
sand from a place he could not seem to cleanse from his soul.

__________

The envelope contained two items.
One was a picture of Virgil’s mother lying in her hospital bed. She was propped
up by pillows and blankets that held her upright, her lack of strength and fatigue
evident, even though she was smiling. The side effects from the steroids her
oncologists had prescribed had taken a toll on her body, her face puffy and
swollen, but the light in her eyes remained strong even on her deathbed. What
gave Virgil pause though, and caused his hands to tremble was the man who sat next
to her on the edge of the bed, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding
her hand in his.

Murton Wheeler.

Somewhere in the depths of
Virgil’s consciousness he heard Rosencrantz say his name.

“It’s personal, Rosie. Would you excuse
me, please?” When Rosencrantz left the room, Virgil sat down at one of the
small cubicles and set the photograph on the table. The letter was from his
mother, in her own hand, written less than a week before she died. It read,

My dear Virgil,

This is a fine picture of
Murton and me, isn’t it? I thought you might like to keep it. When you and
Murton became friends it was a friendship that changed our family for the
better. After his own mother died, I watched you boys play and grow together
over the years and I began to think of you as brothers, and myself as a
substitute for the mother he never had the opportunity to know or love.

Murton was a fine child and
from what I gather, he has turned into a fine man as well. I believe it’s time
to let the past go, Virgil. You have chosen to punish Murton for what happened,
but I thank him. I thank him for asking you to stop that horrible night in the
desert. I thank him for wandering off and getting lost in the dark. But mostly,
I thank him for keeping you alive while your body bled from the inside. It’s
time for you to forgive yourself and Murton for what happened over there, and
quite frankly, I think you should thank him too. I have.

I hope throughout the years my
love for you was as evident as it could be. I hope you’re lucky enough to
eventually find someone to share your life with. Don’t be afraid of marriage.
There is a woman out there waiting for you and all you have to do is be open
enough to recognize it when she finds you. Have children if you can, and
someday when they’re grown and gone and you find yourself older and in the
twilight of your life, find this letter and read it again. My hope is it will
offer you an understanding not previously possible. I consider it an honor to
be able to live on through you and I’m proud to say I am your mother. I love
you Virgil, my sweet darling boy.

Love,

Mom

P.S. Don’t forget to duck if
someone shoots at you. Ha ha
.

__________

Later that night Virgil worked
behind the bar with Delroy. But the events of the last two days had left him in
a fog and he was mostly in the way, and everyone has their limits, even Delroy.
Finally, after he'd made half a dozen drinks in a row the wrong way, Delroy
pulled him aside and asked him what was wrong. Virgil told him about his case,
from the beginning when he’d first learned of Franklin Dugan’s murder, to
speaking briefly with an old high school flame and her peculiar and mercurial
husband, his encounter with Sandy, seeing Murton, and most of all, the letter
and photograph that allowed his mother to speak to him from the grave as if the
elements of time, space, and mortality held no sway in her existence even
though she had passed over a year ago.

“Let me see dat picture, you,” he
said. When Virgil handed him the picture, Delroy studied it for a long time
before he spoke. “My mother’s name was Hazel,” he said. “She stood ‘bout five
feet tall, her, no more of dat, mon. She work her whole life, mostly laundry
for the rich people live in the hills high above the road dat look out over the
bay water. One day Robert and me went wid her to carry the buckets. We were
both only fourteen. When dat truck swerved to miss the goats in the road it
headed right toward us. She shoved Robert and me into the ditch but dat truck,
mon, it struck her dead. She land right next to us. I never forget it. I never
had no picture of my mother. No letter, either. But I’ll tell you this, if I did,
I do what it say to do, mon. Your mother, she don’t live here,” he said as he
tapped his finger at the side of Virgil’s head. “She don’t live in no picture,
either.” Then he placed his palm flat upon Virgil’s chest over his heart and
said, “She live in here, just like your grandfather do. Go home now. There’s
nothing here for you. Not tonight, no.”

“How did you ever become so wise,
Delroy?”

Delroy just laughed and went back
to work and Virgil thought:
Bottom line? If you find yourself in need, seek
out the advice of a Jamaican bartender.

18

__________

T
he
next morning on his way to work, with little forethought, Virgil turned into
the entrance of the cemetery where his mother was buried. He wound his way
around the perimeter road and parked his truck on the service pathway next to
her burial plot. A black Crown Victoria sat on the road a few yards ahead of
him, its parking lights on, the engine idling. Virgil got out of his truck and
walked over to his mother’s gravesite. What he saw when he got there stopped
him in his tracks.

Murton Wheeler stood by the grave,
a single flower clutched in his right hand. Virgil gave it a moment, then walked
up behind him as Murton placed the flower on top of her tombstone. “I always
loved your mom, Jonesy. You know that, don’t you? She was the mom I never had.
Remember how she cried when we got back from sand-land? She hugged me like I
was her own then kissed me on both cheeks and once on the lips, just like she
did with you.”

“I remember her crying even harder
when you disappeared. You broke her heart, Murt.”

A morning wind blew hard through
the cemetery and the flower Murt had placed on top of her tombstone fell off
the back. He retrieved it, this time placing it on the ground in front of her
marker and used his fingers to half bury the stem in the ground to hold it in
place. When he stood, he looked at Virgil and said, “There are things you don’t
know, Jonesy. Sometimes things go a certain way and you end up someplace you
never knew existed and you see things that are hard to forget.”

“What the hell are you talking
about, Murton?

“I’m talking about trying to
figure some things out, that’s all.” He turned a full circle and looked across
the cemetery as he did so. “Did you know I was here the day you buried your
mom? You didn’t, did you? I can tell by the look on your face. I wanted to talk
to you then, but I knew how that would probably turn out.”

“Maybe not,” Virgil said, though
he thought Murton was probably right. “Who were those men looking for you last
night at the bar? Why did you leave?”

“You talked to Pate at his church,
didn’t you?” he said. “I know you did because I saw you there.”

Before Virgil could respond, the corner
of his mother’s tombstone seemed to fragment, the granite exploding outward
just as a distant gunshot echoed through the trees. Murton pushed Virgil to the
ground where he landed face first in the grass. By the time he’d cleared his
eyes of dirt and debris, Murton was already at his car. Virgil started to run
after him, but then simply stopped and watched him go. There were no other
shots fired, and the shooter, was nowhere in sight.

__________

The damage to the tombstone was
minimal. In fact, Virgil thought, given the nature of the design, no one would
probably notice the chipped piece missing from the corner unless they were
specifically looking for it. A casual glance would reveal what looked like
nothing more than a clean spot, as if someone had started to clean away a
year’s worth of grime then given up. Nevertheless, he would have to file a
report of the gunshot, both with his department and the city. He stopped at the
cemetery office building, more as a courtesy than anything else and informed
the lone worker of the incident. When he showed him his badge and informed him
of the incident that had just occurred, the attendant seemed utterly
underwhelmed by the entire situation.

“Did you happen to notice a black
Crown Victoria enter the grounds before I arrived?”

“I didn’t see you arrive, so I
don’t know if it was before or after,” he said.

“I think perhaps you’ve misinterpreted
my question. I’m not asking if you saw the car before or after, I’m asking if
you saw it at all.”

He rolled his eyes the way young
people often do when forced to participate in a conversation they want no part
of. “There’s a form you can fill out if you want to report any type of
vandalism to a grave site,” he said. “But the cemetery is only responsible for
the grounds. Any damage to the marker is your own responsibility. It says so in
your contract. I saw the Crown Vic a few minutes ago when it left. If they’re
friends of yours the next time you see them you might want to mention the speed
limit around here is five miles per hour. But you’re a cop right? I guess you’d
know that already.”

Virgil looked at him without
saying anything, and after a few seconds of silence the attendant asked if he
wanted the form or not. Virgil told him no and walked out the door.

__________

When Virgil got to his office there
was a note from Cora taped to the door with instructions to see her when he got
in. He opened the door, tossed his jacket on the chair and started back out,
but his desk phone rang so he turned around and picked up the receiver.

Bradley Pearson, the governor’s
aide. “Do you mind explaining to me what in the hell is going on over there?”

“Hello, Bradley. I’m not sure I
understand the nature of your question.”

“Then try this. The Governor does
not appreciate agents from the FBI questioning him in a public setting about a
case that you’re supposed to be handling for him.”

Pearson had a way of making
something sound completely different than it actually was. His choice of words
and the manner in which he spoke suggested Virgil was, at the very least, doing
a personal favor for the governor, and at most, covering something up for him
and his office. “Let me see if I can clear something up for you, Bradley. I
work for the State of Indiana. I am not, repeat, not
handling
anything
for the governor. The agent you’re talking about is named Gibson, right? He
rolled on a bomb threat that turned up bust yesterday and tried to tell me I
was interfering with a federal investigation. If he complained to the governor,
that’s your problem, not mine. Anything else?”

“Yeah, Jonesy, there is something
else. Who the fuck is Murton Wheeler?”

Virgil almost answered, but he
instead hung the phone up gently and walked over to Cora’s office. It was only
ten thirty in the morning.

__________

When he walked in she had Bradley
Pearson on speaker, and he was shouting into the phone about how Virgil had
just hung up on him. Cora let him go on for a few minutes, waving Virgil into
one of the chairs in front of her desk. When his rant got old and repetitive, Cora
interrupted him and said, “Listen to me you pathetic little piss-pot, the governor
and I go back further than you and he ever will. Much further. In fact, I knew
him when you were still in diapers, so hear me when I say this. If you ever
call up one of my people and question their tactics, loyalties, or methods of
operation again, I will personally see to it that the next political position
you hold will be cleaning out the congressional toilets. If you don’t think
I’ve got the juice to pull it off then pick up the phone and call me back.”
Then for the second time in less than five minutes someone hung up on Bradley
Pearson.

If you have a boss like Cora
LaRue, Virgil thought, going to work in the morning is not too difficult at
all.

She puffed out her cheeks, then
said, “So Jones man, where are we? I can take care of Pearson, but sooner or
later the governor himself is going to come calling.”

Virgil sat down and spent the next
thirty minutes explaining his relationship with Murton, how they were raised together,
how they fought together in the war, their falling out, his recent visit to the
bar and cemetery, the interviews with Amanda and Samuel Pate, and his talk with
Amy Frechette. Thirty minutes later, after he’d finished, she asked the most
basic of questions. “So what now?”

“I hate to say it.”

“Well, at least we’re on the same
page then. Boyhood friends or not, Jonesy, you’ve got to follow this wherever
it leads you. Get warrants for Wheeler. One to search his residence and one for
his arrest.”

“You asked me to look into Pate,
Cora. I’ve had one brief conversation with him. For reasons I can’t readily
explain, they’ve invited me to a gathering at their church this Saturday. I
think I might go and see what I can see, though it’s probably a waste of time.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You know how
these things work. Get the warrants cut on Wheeler anyway.”

“I just don’t think Murton is
involved in the way it seems like he might be.”

“It’s not a request, Jonesy. Get
it done.”

Virgil wanted to argue, but he
knew she was right.

Sorry, Mom,
he thought.

__________

Virgil filled out the appropriate
forms for the warrants, walked them over to the prosecutor’s office, then spent
the better part of the day with Sandy reviewing the case notes that had been
put together on the murders of Franklin Dugan, Jerry Burns, Rhonda Rhodes, and
Elle Richardson. But he had a difficult time concentrating, his thoughts bouncing
back and forth between his growing feelings for Sandy and his sudden rekindled
loyalty to his lifelong friend, Murton Wheeler, whom Virgil felt he was about
to betray. He picked up the phone and called Cora in her office. “Got a
second?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’ll be right there.”

Virgil walked into her office and
laid it out. “This morning you asked me to get warrants for Murton Wheeler. On
the surface I think that’s sound procedure, but there’s something else at play
here.”

She was tapping her pen against
the blotter on her desk. “Like what?”

“Murton Wheeler worked for Pate.
His girlfriend, Amy Frechette, is now one of the pastors of Grace Community
Church. Pate borrowed over five million dollars from Dugan’s bank to buy an all
but condemned building. Amy Frechette says she doesn’t know where Wheeler is.
The two goons who followed him into the bar the other night work for Pate. Did
you read my report on the shots fired at the cemetery?”

“Yeah?”

“Who do you think was doing the
shooting?”

“My guess would be the two who
tried to brace you at your bar about Wheeler. Pate’s guys,” she said. She
tapped the pen harder and faster on her blotter.

“Mine too.” Virgil looked at the
pen and the little ink marks it made on the desk pad. “Would you mind not doing
that, please?”

She lowered her chin and raised
her eyebrows at him. Virgil looked down for a moment, then raised his hands, palms
out. An apology. “So if Wheeler, who works or worked for Pate is responsible
for the murder of Franklin Dugan, why would he seek me out at the bar? When I
saw him at the cemetery he hadn’t followed me, he was already there.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want
to pick him up or search his last known residence?”

“No. I’m not saying that at all,”
Virgil said, but he let his eyes fall away from hers when he spoke.

“Like it or not, Jonesy, Wheeler’s
a part of this.”

“Whether or not I like it has
nothing to do with it, Cora.”

“You’re right about that,” she
said. “But you don’t have to convince me.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Wheeler is, or was, a friend. You
two have a history together. You can’t serve a personal agenda and the state at
the same time, Jonesy.”

“There is no personal agenda,”
Virgil said, but he regretted the lie as soon as the words were out of his
mouth.

“So what was in the safe deposit
box then? I didn’t see that in your report.” When Virgil didn’t answer her
question, she tried another. “So what is it, exactly, that you want to do?”

Virgil told her and when he
finished she gave her pen a little rat-a-tat-tat on the blotter, winked at him
and said, “So let’s walk over and talk to the D.A. It should be fun. Did you
know he used to teach a criminal law course at Notre Dame? I’m sure we won’t
have any trouble convincing him.”

__________

Preston Elliott, the prosecuting
attorney for Marion county, was a hands-on administrator who still worked his
own caseload, put in more hours than anyone else in his office, and held one of
the highest conviction rates in the history of the county. He stood five feet,
four inches tall and had an attitude consistent with someone who carried a
short man complex around in his hip pocket. He took his job seriously and his
scotch neat.

When they walked into his office
he greeted them from behind his desk without standing up. His shirtsleeves were
rolled up past his elbows and Virgil saw him peek at his watch as he motioned them
to the chairs in front of his desk. Twenty minutes later they’d laid it out for
him.

“It’s not enough. Surely you know
that. Cora, you told him, right? It’s not enough.”

“It’s where the answers are,”
Virgil said. “But Pate’s not talking. If we can get a look at his books—”

Elliott interrupted him. “Have you
served the warrant on this Wheeler fellow yet?”

“Not yet.”

“So let me see if I’ve got this
straight,” he said. “Wheeler has served time in Westville for assault. Franklin
Dugan, who wrote the note on a five million dollar deal is shot to death in his
driveway. Nobody knows where Wheeler is, not even his girlfriend, who
coincidentally is the pastor of the church that was bought by Pate with the
money he borrowed from the dead banker. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, but—”

Elliott held up a finger. “Let me
finish,” he said. He was pacing back and forth now behind his desk, as if he
were in the courtroom giving a summation to a jury. “Wheeler worked for Pate,
but again, no one knows where Wheeler is, save the run-ins you’ve had with him.
So for reasons you’ve yet to explain, you want to sit on the arrest and search
warrants of a convicted felon and instead want another warrant so you can toss
the offices of one of the city’s most famous, and I might add, influential
people?”