Mad Max: Unintended Consequences (18 page)

Time for my daily report to Whip. Once the police let him read the newspapers, he suffered mixed emotions when Merry's murder returned to the front page following his arraignment. The media continued to brand him a cold-blooded wife killer, guilty as charged. One opinion columnist for the
Richmond Times-Dispatch
wrote he should plead out, save the county the cost of a useless trial, and take his punishment like a man. The columnist had spoken to a cop but wouldn't identify his source. He hadn't questioned Vince. He hadn't tried to interview Whip, and he sure as heck hadn't reached out to me. I was pissed off about Whip being tried and convicted
in absentia
by some newspaper hack doing a shoddy job.

Whip was in one of his nastiest moods when I showed up with the news about Hunter's multiple personae.

“So, he uses aliases. Big fuckin’ deal. Does the medical board know?”

“I have a call in to them.”

“Wonder what else he's hiding.”

“No idea, but there's more. I think he has Merry's cell. When I called, I could hear raspy breathing.”

“Sure it was Hunter? Not someone who may have found the phone?”

“My gut says he kept it. When I called right back, I got voicemail. It was creepy.”

Did Hunter keep trophies of all of his victims? Sick, but so was creating his brand of perfection only to destroy it.

“Get a printout of her last calls. You'll know if someone's been using it. Don't forget her text messages.”

“Already done.” Or I could just ask Alex.

“Wonder where Hunter was before Chaminade. Told me when we met he was here on a one-year teaching fellowship. Probably why Merry thought they'd move.”

“Alex's working on Hunter's history. He's found contradictory stories about where he went to medical school. He found where Hunter worked, though. He's tracking leads in three states.”

Even though I knew Alex was hacking into Hunter's accounts, I couldn't encourage my grandson to break the law. We had a long talk when I let him know in no uncertain terms we were living in extraordinary times. I'd only tolerate him hacking into Hunter's cell or computer to help his father. Alex promised, but he might have had his fingers crossed behind his back.

Whip was in enough trouble for all of us. I didn't want Alex or Emilie, or for that matter, Johnny, doing anything illegal, but I'd overlook a little social engineering. If it helped the cause. After all, I'd pulled off a bank heist. Sort of. Right now, I could rationalize anything short of murder. Maybe even that if it got Whip out of jail.

“Em hasn't said much, but she took Merry's PC from the kitchen desk to her room. I'm sure she's reading every e-mail.”

“Has she found anything?”

“Other than lots of proof Merry was having an affair with Hunter, no. They sent lots of raunchy e-mails and text messages back and forth. We already knew about the text messages. Now, we know what they said in e-mail too.”

“Hunter texting anyone else?”

“Not that we know of. Alex figured out his computer password, so we can read his e-mails too.”

My turn to cross my fingers behind my back.

I didn't want Whip asking too many questions, so I plunged ahead. “At any rate, we're trying to get answers to our ‘fridge list.’”

“‘Fridge list’?”

I handed Whip the list of questions. He laughed at our level of organization and the assignments.

“Johnny's helping? Tops okay with this?”

“He sure is. We can have Johnny any time we need him.”

“Have you found Merry's purse?”

“No. The police don't have it.”

“Wonder if Hunter took it with the cell.”

“I'm betting on it. The purse is most likely long gone in a dumpster somewhere. The police said it wasn't in her apartment.”

“Merry kept all her passwords written on a card in a side pocket. Never could remember the alarm settings for the house.”

“Phooey. The security system. Hunter could get in. I'll call as soon as I get home. Have the company reset the codes.”

“Good idea.”

“Why won't the police give us more information? They're no help at all.”

“They don't have to help. They have their killer behind bars.”

More bitterness. I hated the police department's myopia and narrow-mindedness as much as Whip hated putting his family through this mess.

“Johnny's checking on her jewelry?”

“He's looking at pawn shops in a twenty-mile radius around Richmond.” I winked. “He didn't want me going into such notorious establishments.”

“Hell, like you're afraid of anything. You little witch. Let him feel big and brave and strong, didja? He-man protecting the shrinking violet from seedy places?”

Whip laughed for the first time in days. A belly laugh that brought tears to his eyes. He couldn't stop, especially when I did my best Scarlett O'Hara-eyelashes bat.

“Why, Rhett, how can you even think such a thing about little ol’ me?” I waved an imaginary fan to cool my flushed face.

When Whip had caught his breath, he told me he just realized the importance of two truisms: The truth will set you free, and laughter really is the best medicine.

“Corny and unoriginal, but I don't give a damn. Feel more like myself for the first time since Merry's murder.”

“Murder sure has a way of sapping energy.” I turned serious again. “Put those gray cells to work. I can't do this alone.”

“You guys are doing fine.”

Rare praise, huh? Time for a come-to-Jesus moment.

“I'm making this up as I go along.”

“No guidebooks on how to solve a murder, huh?”

“None that work. I've never felt so helpless, so out of control.”

“Know what you mean.”

“Not only don't I have all the answers. I don't have all the questions. I don't know what I don't know. I need you to add to the list, give us suggestions. Help in any way you can. It's your freedom.”

I left a copy of the list with Whip. My time was up, and Pete would soon shut us down.

“I have to run. I'm meeting Johnny for lunch. He has a lead on my mother's watch, the one I gave Merry. I may get to visit a pawn shop this afternoon.”

I winked as Pete opened the door and blew Whip a kiss as I left.

“Hello, pretty lady,” Johnny rose and kissed me on the cheek. I was late getting to Applebee's.

“Sorry, traffic was wicked. I forgot they're setting up the Celtic Festival at the high school.”

“No problem. I just got here too. What have you been up to?”

I told Johnny I'd just come from the jail.

“How's Whip holding up?”

“He's okay, but I told him he had to help. He can't sit around on his butt all day getting fat on all that gourmet jailhouse food.”

Johnny laughed. We ordered and sipped iced tea while we waited for our salad and burger. Me, the spinach salad, of course; Johnny, the burger. That man could eat more food than even Alex. He never gained an ounce. His doctor was satisfied with his overall health. I waited for him to tell me what he'd found. It took no more than two bites of burger and a few fries.

“I'm pretty sure I found your watch. I must've walked into every pawn shop in Richmond. It was closer to Chaminade than I thought it'd be.”

“I brought a picture of Hunter.”

“How'd you get that?”

“Alex found a news clip. It's grainy, but he's recognizable.”

“Terrific.”

“Let's see what the owner says when we tell him the watch was stolen.”

“It doesn't matter. If it's yours, we call the police. Let the insurance company settle it.”

“Right.”

We drove through Richmond as quickly as traffic allowed after lunch. I was impatient and nervous. What if it wasn't Merry's watch? What if it was? Either way, I'd learn something; I just didn't know what.

“I was here two days ago about a watch. I don't see it.” Johnny frowned.

“I put it in the safe. The guy who pawned it said he'd be back. I ain't seen him.”

I breathed as silent a sigh of relief as was humanly possible. I was keyed up to the point where I'd burst if I didn't see the watch right this second.

The pawnbroker returned from the back room, my grandmother's watch draped over his left fingers. Before I took it, I wanted the shop owner to look at the back.

“Do you have a jeweler's loop?”

“‘Course.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a small loop and clipped it over the right lens of his small gold-rimmed glasses. “What am I looking for?”

“On the back should be an inscription: ‘For Josie at sixteen.’ There was a date, but it's almost worn off.”

“Got it.”

“Josie was my grandmother.”

“So this is yours?” The pawnbroker dangled the watch over three long fingers.

“I gave it to my daughter on her sixteenth birthday, as my mother had to me. She had it with her when she was murdered.”

“Oh my God. Not the woman who got shot? I didn't have nothin’ to do with that.”

“We know you didn't. We just want to find the son of a bitch who killed her daughter.” Johnny's face showed less expression than a Mayan sculpture. “We'll need you to talk to the police. Okay if I give ‘em a call?”

The pawnbroker handed over his cordless phone. “Number five on speed dial.”

“Thanks.”

I wandered around the pawn shop. I'd never been in one before and wasn't sure what to expect—probably something dark, slightly dank, and seedy. I didn't expect something crowded with goods but bright, sunny, and scrubbed clean. Every countertop was polished.

“Easier to isolate fingerprints if I get robbed.” The owner tracked my every movement. I looked over my shoulder at the owner. I couldn't imagine anyone messing with anyone who looked like a weightlifter. Would have to be a nut case.

I thought about the watch's recent history. Next in line was Emilie, but her mother wouldn't be the one to give it to her. I'd have to. That wasn't supposed to be my job. Damn Hunter! He took so much from my family.

“Real sorry about your daughter, ma'am. Don't deal in stolen goods. If I'd known this was hot, I'd have kicked the guy's ass—sorry, butt—out the door.”

I believed him. I reached into my bag and pulled out Hunter's picture.

“Is this the man who pawned it?”

The pawnbroker ran his hand across his shaved scalp and barely glanced at the print. “Nah.”

“Will you take another look?” Johnny asked.

“Don't have to. Guy was black. Darker than me.”

“Crap.” Johnny swore as he hung up the phone.

“Yeah, didn't fit my normal clientele. Why I remembered him. Stood out, know what I mean?”

“No, I don't.” Johnny picked up Hunter's photo.

“Well dressed. Slacks, polished shoes, dress shirt. Most of my guys wear oversized jeans, sneakers, and stadium coats. Guy didn't fit. Coulda been one of the doctors at Chaminade. Get ‘em in here all the time. ‘Specially just before payday.”

This well-dressed black man's identity was another question for the fridge list.

“Seen this guy, though.” The pawnbroker tapped his finger on the print. “Came in a few weeks back looking for a gun.”

“A gun?” Johnny stopped lounging against the counter, ears pricked up, every sense on red alert.

“Yeah. Filled out the paperwork but never came back after the waiting period. Musta got someone else to sell him a piece.”

“Was it a twenty-two?”

“Nah. Wanted a Walther. Wondered if he had some kind of James Bond fantasy going.” He nodded at the locked gun safe. “Didn't have one, so he filled out paperwork for that Glock.”

“You still have the application?” Johnny asked.

“Sure. Seemed strange, though. Wasn't a Glock kinda guy.”

“There's a Glock type?” Could the pawnbroker take a look at someone and tell what kind of gun he or she was likely to own?

“Sure. Target shooters mostly. Gang members, but they don't buy. They steal.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cops too. Fairly standard piece, only cops don't buy from a pawn shop. Get ‘em issued.”

While the pawnbroker shuffled through his file, I asked, “What kind of gun would I want?”

He didn't raise his head. “A twenty-two or thirty-eight.”

“Why?”

“Hand's too small for most three-fifty-sevens or nine-millimeters. You'd use either a twenty-two or a thirty-eight. Maybe a thirty-two. Probably a revolver. Nothing big or heavy. Here it is.”

My hand shook as I took the crumpled form. I looked first at the name to see if Hunter had used his own name or an alias. Randall A. Hunter. Yes, a known alter ego.

I was surprised he used his “real” name, until I saw the driver's license information. Of course, he'd have to produce identification. No occupation was given. We already knew his home address and now we added a date of birth and Social Security number. I wrote the new information in my notebook.

Wonder if either's real. Alex'll find out.

“Was this approved?” Johnny peered over my shoulder.

“Sure. No problem. Just the guy never came back.”

Guess the date of birth and Social Security number are real.

“Look at the date.” I pointed to it and showed Johnny.

“Three weeks before Merry's murder,” Johnny said. “Looks like he was getting ready.”

“Looks like he was getting ready for something.” I was troubled about Hunter wanting another gun.

“Yes, but why use a twenty-two then?”

“If you ask me, a twenty-two'd make more sense. Like I said, not a Glock guy. Hands are too delicate. If he don't know how to use the thing, he'd shoot out the damned ceiling.”

Johnny and I had learned all we could from the pawnbroker when I thought of two more questions.

“The guy who brought in the watch. Other than being black and well dressed, do you remember anything else about him?”

“Six feet, skinny, short hair slicked back, glasses, foreign accent. Didn't recognize it. Oh yeah, he had a triangular scar on his left cheek. That help?”

“It does. Any chance you still have the tapes from the two visits?” Johnny nodded up at the security camera.

“Nah. System wipes the disk at the end of the week.”

“One more question, if you don't mind. Mr.…”

“Smith. John Smith.” The pawnbroker pointed to his business permit. “Mother didn't have much imagination.”

The police arrived. I filed a report and watched them seal the watch in an envelope. The senior officer gave me instructions on how to reclaim my property.

“Mr. Smith, if I wanted to sell a large diamond ring and some diamond earrings, where would I go?”

“Broad Street or West Cary. Lots of jewelry and antique shops over there buy estate jewelry.”

“Mr. Smith, I can't tell you how helpful you've been. Thank you.” I reached out the hand too small for a three-fifty-seven.

“Hope you find the guy who killed your daughter, ma'am. No one should have to go through that.” The pawnbroker gripped my hand.

I left the shop with Johnny, gratified by kindness from a stranger. Mr. Smith didn't have to help or offer me sympathy. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

“Pretty lady, I gotta get back to work. Drop you at your car?”

“Fine. I want to change and do some shopping.”

“You look great to me.” Johnny draped his arm across my shoulders.

“Yes, but I'm shopping for some expensive jewelry. I want to look the part.”

“You always look like a million bucks.”

I couldn't believe Johnny said that. I glanced over to see if he was joking. He never looked more serious. “You're too sweet. At least we have one answer for the fridge list.”

“Plus several more questions. Would you like to go to dinner and catch a movie Saturday?”

“I'd love it. I'll need a break from playing sleuth by then.” If the circumstances had been different, I could get used to being an amateur detective. I was almost having fun.

“Just what kind of sleuthing do you have in mind?”

“First, see if Hunter sold the rest of the jewelry. Then figure out how to find the black doctor. I bet he works at the hospital.”

“I don't like this. He could be Hunter's partner.” Johnny paused to look at me.

I shook my head. “Hunter's a loner.”

“And if you find this doctor?”

“I'll try and get the hours he works. Then you can talk to him.”

“Oh, I get it. You do the easy work. Then, send in the muscle to rough him up.” Johnny grinned and flexed his free bicep.

“Not at all. He might be more willing to talk to you than me. You can be most persuasive.” That earned a squeeze of my shoulder.

“Find him first, and we'll flip to see who interrogates him. How're you going to get the hospital to give out personal information?”

“I can't decide between ditzy blonde or dotty old lady. Depends on my mood when I call.”

Johnny's laugh boomed across the busy intersection. It startled a family in front of us. A little girl glanced over her shoulder. I smiled, waggled my fingers, and watched her duck behind her daddy's leg.