Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (21 page)

I walked up next to where he stood and looked him in the eye. “I remember her crying even harder when you disappeared,” I said. “You broke her heart, Murt.”

A morning wind blew hard across the burial ground and the flower Murt had placed atop 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 me 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,” I said, but even as I said the words I thought he 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.”

I was just about to ask him why he was there when the corner of my mother’s tombstone seemed to fragment, the granite exploding outward at the same time a distant gunshot echoed through the trees. Murton pushed me to the ground and I landed face first in the grass. By the time I cleared my eyes of dirt and debris, Murt was running toward the Crown Vic parked ahead of my truck. I started to run after him, but when he climbed in the driver’s side door and drove off I stopped and watched him go. There were no other shots fired, and the shooter, was nowhere in sight.

* * *

The damage to my mother’s tombstone was minimal. In fact, given the nature of the design, you probably would not notice the chipped piece missing from the corner unless you 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, I would have to file a report of the gunshot, both with my department and with the city. I stopped at the cemetery office building before I left the grounds, more as a courtesy than anything else and informed the lone worker of the incident. When I showed him my badge and informed him of the incident that just took place, he 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 said. “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 at me 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.”

I looked at him without saying anything, and after a few seconds of silence he asked me if I wanted the form or not. I told him no, but I signed the guestbook as evidence of my being here, wrote the date and time next to my name, then handed the young man my card. “Have a nice day,” I said, then walked out the door.

* * *

When I walked into my office there was a note on my desk from my boss, Cora, with instructions to see her when I got in. I tossed my jacket on the chair and walked toward the door, but my desk phone rang so I walked back over and picked up the receiver. It was Bradley Pearson, the Governor’s aid. “Do you mind explaining to me what in the hell is going on over there?”

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

“Then let me see if I can help you with that,” he said. “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 what it actually was. I was charged with leading the investigation into Dugan’s murder on behalf of the state, but Pearson’s choice of words and the manner in which he spoke suggested I 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 went crying to the Governor that’s your problem, not mine. Anything else?”

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

I hung the phone up gently and walked over to Cora’s office. It was only ten thirty in the morning.

* * *

When I walked into Cora’s office she had Bradley Pearson on speaker, and he was shouting into the phone about how I had just hung up on him. Cora let him go on for a few minutes and waved me into one of the chairs in front of her desk as she did. 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, going to work in the morning is not too difficult at all.

She puffed out her cheeks, then said, “So Jones man, lay it out for me, will you? Where are we? I can take care of Pearson, but sooner or later the Governor himself is going to come calling.”

So I did. I told her of my boyhood relationship with Murton, how we played together, how my mother raised us, how we fought together in the war, our falling out, his visit to the bar and my mother’s grave site, my interviews with Amanda and Samuel Pate, and my talk with Amy Frechette. Thirty minutes later, after I had finished, she asked the most basic of questions. “So what now?”

“I hate to say it,” I said.

“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 Saturday to a gathering at their church. I think I might go and see what I can see. 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.”

I wanted to argue, but she was right, and I think we both knew it.

Sorry, Mom,
I thought.

* * *

I 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, Barney Burns, Rhonda Rhodes, and Elle Richardson. But I had a difficult time concentrating as my thoughts bounced back and forth between my growing feelings for Sandy, and my sudden rekindled loyalty to my lifelong friend, Murton Wheeler, whom I felt I was about to betray. I picked up the phone and called Cora in her office. “Got a second?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’ll be right there,” I said, then I hung up and told Sandy I’d be back in a few minutes.

I walked into her office and sat down in front of her desk. “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 also work for Pate. 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 about Wheeler at the bar. Pate’s guys,” she said. She tapped the pen harder and faster on her blotter.

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

She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows at me. I looked down for a moment, then raised my hands, my palms toward her as 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?,” she said.

“No. I’m not saying that at all,” I said, but my eyes fell away from hers when I 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, right? 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,” I said, but I regretted the lie as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

“So what was in the safe deposit box then?” she said. “I didn’t see that in your report.”

Try to throw Cora a curve ball on an even up count and she’ll check her swing every time. When I did not answer her question, she tried another. “So what is it, exactly, that you want to do?”

I laid it out for her. When I finished she gave her pen a little rat-a-tat-tat on the blotter, winked at me and said, “So let’s take a 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 someone I had known for over five years. We weren’t exactly friends, but we had worked together any number of times over the years on different cases. He 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, had an attitude consistent with someone who carries a short man complex, and he seemed to tower over his opponents in the courtroom. He took his job seriously and his scotch neat.

When we walked into his office at the end of the day he greeted us from behind his desk without standing up. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and I saw him peek at his watch has he motioned us to the chairs in front of his desk. Twenty minutes later I had laid it out for him.

He looked at me, then at Cora, then back at me. “It’s not enough. Surely you know that. Cora, you told him, right? It’s not enough.”

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

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

“Not yet” I said.

“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “This Wheeler character 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. So for reasons you’ve yet to explain, you want to sit on the arrest and search warrants of a convicted felon and instead you want another warrant so you can toss the offices of one of the city’s most famous, and I might add, influential people.”