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Authors: Sandra Brown

Tags: #Legal, #Suspense, #Fiction, #General, #Georgia, #Thrillers, #Rich people, #Atlanta (Ga.), #Trials (Murder), #Legal stories, #Rich People - Georgia

Smash Cut (27 page)

BOOK: Smash Cut
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D
ODGE KNOCKED. DEREK OPENED THE DOOR. THE INVESTIGATOR stalked in. When he saw Julie, he bobbed his head. “I figured.”
Derek said, “Julie Rutledge, Dodge Hanley.”
Without acknowledging the introduction, Dodge said, “The snooty desk clerk with the bad rug and a cob up his butt said you probably wouldn’t welcome being disturbed this morning. He hinted that you hadn’t spent the night alone. But I didn’t want to think you could be this stupid.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
The older man took in Derek’s boxer shorts, then looked over at Julie, where she sat swaddled in the robe.
“We only had one set of clothes,” Derek explained. “They’re out being pressed.”
Dodge grunted. “Convenient.”
Derek crossed his arms over his bare chest, realizing as he did so that he struck a ridiculous pose. “Did you come here to cast aspersions, cast stones, or tell us what’s going on?”
“Nothing good,” the investigator muttered. He walked over to the table and looked down at Julie’s plate. “Are you going to finish that?”
“Help yourself.”
He scooped up the leftover blintz and ate it like a burrito, licking the ricotta and strawberry sauce off his fingers when he was done. “Myself, I haven’t had time for breakfast this morning. I’ve been fielding calls.”
“From whom?” Derek asked.
“From everybody I bribed last night. My expenses on this case are going to be out your ass, and I can’t say I’m sorry.” He poured coffee from the carafe into Derek’s cup and slurped it.
“What have you heard?”
“They searched her house, starting with the attic rafters and working down.”
“Let me guess,” Derek said. “They found a blouse with a button missing. We knew they would. Doesn’t prove the button found in Duke’s motel came off Julie’s blouse. It’s not one of a kind.”
“We’re not in court, and I’m not a juror,” Dodge said. “Save your shots, Counselor.” He glanced at Julie. “You’re gonna need them.”
“What else?”
Dodge sat down at the small table across from Julie and addressed himself to her. “They found a pistol under your mattress.”
“Paul gave it to me for protection.”
“Lucky for you it’s not the caliber of the one used to shoot him.”
Derek said, “If they lift prints from it, mine will be on there.”
Dodge went whey-faced and looked up at his boss. “Swell.”
“I told you about it. When I walked into her house, the lights were out, she had the weapon—”
“Okay, okay.” Turning back to Julie, Dodge said, “Forget the firearm. That’s the good news. Your friend Wheeler wore a fancy watch.”
“A Patek Philippe. It was taken during the robbery.”
“Um-huh. So imagine how tickled Sanford and Kimball were when it turned up at your house with all the other loot that was stolen that day.”
Derek watched the blood literally drain from her face. “That’s impossible.”
“’Fraid not, Ms. Rutledge. It was all in a little black velvet pouch as described by the victims of the robbery, yourself included. Found in a shoe box in your closet, sitting right on top of a pair of black satin shoes. By the way, Detective Kimball remarked on what great shoes you’ve got.”
Julie was staring into near space. Derek doubted she’d heard anything Dodge had said beyond the pouch being found. He had to speak her name twice before she came out of her daze. When she looked up at him, her eyes were wide with disbelief.
“He must have planted it there. Billy Duke. He was coming out of my bedroom. That must have been what he was doing in there. He kept the jewelry and came to my house to leave it to be found.”
She divided a wild, desperate look between him and Dodge. He wasn’t sure what his expression revealed, but Dodge’s was patently skeptical.
She came out of her chair, a cornered animal making a defiant stand. “If I had masterminded that holdup and murder, do you think I’d be stupid enough to keep the jewelry? In a
shoe box

Dodge said nothing. Derek ran his fingers through his hair. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“But a double-crossing partner might want it to be found on your property.”
Julie rested her small fists on the edge of the table as she leaned toward Dodge. “I didn’t have a partner. I had never seen that man until he staggered out of my bedroom.”
“And threw himself against an eight-inch serrated butcher knife you just happened to be holding at gut level.”
“Okay, Dodge,” Derek snapped. “What else can you tell us?”
Dodge released his stare at Julie and turned to Derek. “They lifted a print out of that rathole motel and sent it through all the databases. Had a positive ID in no time flat. William Randall Duke.”
He pulled a small notebook from the breast pocket of his wrinkled sport jacket and flipped back the glossy blue cover. “Our boy had a couple of misdemeanors to his credit, but served no significant jail time. Graduated to felony when he was tried for extortion in Oregon three years ago. Had an affair with a woman who alleged he blackmailed her. He claimed he was paid—ten of thousands, by the way—for services rendered. All the evidence was circumstantial, basically his word against hers. He was acquitted.
“Popped up in Chicago a year later, charged with stalking. But, turns out the lady was lying to her husband about the nature of her relationship with Duke.” He looked up, divided a glance between them. “He liked the ladies, apparently. And they seemed to like him. The charge in Chicago was dropped.
“Fast forward. A few months ago, he was tried in Nebraska on another extortion charge. This time he was accused of fleecing a middle-aged widow out of thousands in cash and goods. She and Duke were hot and heavy for several months, but he’d got on her fighting side, and she was having the book thrown at him. The night before she was to give testimony in court, which in the DA’s opinion would have cooked Duke’s goose, the widow turned up dead.”
“Dead?”
“As a doornail, Counselor. Murdered on a supermarket parking lot. She went in for a gallon of milk. It and her body were discovered lying beside her car. The milk was cold, her body was warm. Killer got away clean as a whistle. Nobody saw nothing. “It’s like a freaking phantom strangled her.’ That’s a quote from the kid who found her body. Sack boy. Went out to gather up abandoned shopping carts.”
“Duke killed her?”
Dodge smirked. “He had a rock solid alibi. He’d been denied bail because he was considered a flight risk. He was a guest of the county.”
“He was in jail?” Julie asked.
“Locked up tighter than a—Locked up tight,” he amended. “The DA pulled out all the stops, but his key witness was dead, and he didn’t have much else. Jury was out less than two hours, including time to eat lunch. Duke was acquitted. The widow’s murder remains unsolved.”
Neither Derek nor Julie spoke while they assimilated this information. Then Derek said, “He came from Nebraska to here?”
“No one has been able to determine when he arrived in Atlanta. No record of employment. At least not with his authentic Social Security number. Between that business in Nebraska and three days before Wheeler was hit, when he appeared on the hotel security camera, he was under the radar.” He closed the notebook and re placed it in his pocket. “So ends the life and times of William Randall Duke.”
“Does he have family here?”
“That’s being researched, but he doesn’t appear to. He was born in Washington State to a single mom. She committed suicide when he was in eighth grade, and he went through the foster care system. No known family ties anywhere.”
“He squeaked through two serious trials without being convicted.”
Dodge said, “Which begs the question why a slick operator like him pulled a dumb stunt like breaking into Ms. Rutledge’s house to plant stolen goods when he had thus far eluded capture.”
Both men turned to Julie for an answer. She was hugging her elbows, her hands tucked into the wide sleeves of the robe. “He was afraid of being caught with it.”
“Then why didn’t he just toss it in the nearest ditch? Why was he hanging around Atlanta in the first place? Why hadn’t he skipped town as soon as he popped Wheeler?”
They were logical questions to which she had no answers.
The knock sounded unnaturally loud. Derek opened the door. A housekeeping maid wished him a good morning and passed him their clothes, neatly pressed and on hangers. “Thanks.” He took the hangers from her and automatically reached toward his pocket for a tip before he remembered he didn’t have on any pants.
“I’ve got it.” Dodge joined him at the door, gave the maid a five-dollar bill, then followed her out into the hallway.
“Where are you going?”
“To smoke. Get your pants on, for crissake. And call the desk downstairs. Tell that tight-ass I’m coming back up as soon as I’ve had a cigarette. I don’t want to go through that rigamarole again.” He lumbered off down the hall.
Derek closed the door. Julie took one of the hangers from him, then without a word headed for the bedroom.
“Julie?”
She looked back at him. “Your sidekick doesn’t trust a word I say.”
“He doesn’t trust anybody.”
“What about you?” She looked at him for a moment, then said, “You’ve never asked me, Derek.”
“Asked what?”
“Whether or not I’m guilty of having Paul killed.”
“I never ask.”
“Ask me.”
He hesitated, realizing that she was testing his trust in her. “Did you?”
“No.”
When he didn’t say anything in response, her expression became so remote it was difficult for him to believe that they’d experienced such rare and wonderful intimacy not an hour ago, when her face had gone soft with rapture even as her body strained to take more of him.
Her eyes, which last night had cried tears of passion, were now cool. And the lips still whisker-burned from his kisses were tinged with sarcasm and sadness. “I bet you wish you had a nickel for every client who’s said that, too.”
It took her longer than usual to dress because her hands were shaking and she couldn’t concentrate on even the simplest task. By the time she returned to the sitting room, the room service table had been taken away, and Dodge was back. He was sitting on the sofa, notebook in hand.
Derek was pacing, taking occasional glances out the window where he’d opened the louvers of the shutters. The patterned carpet was striped with buttery sunlight. She realized that, to most people, it was a beautiful day.
Derek stopped pacing when she came in and got straight to the point. “They located an abandoned car a few blocks from your house. It had a duffel bag packed with clothes and toiletries, some magazines, personal stuff. They’ve lifted prints from the car, and should verify soon that it was the one used by Duke. He left it there and walked to your house. One of the windows in your bedroom had been jimmied. He came in that way.”
“How did he avoid the alarm? Every window has a contact.”
“The phone line had been cut.”
“That’s why the first 911 didn’t go through. The phone was dead.” Looking at Dodge, she said, “I’ve been meaning to upgrade my security system to a radio signal.”
“I recommend it,” he said caustically.
“What else?” she asked.
Derek motioned for Dodge to take it from there. “The lab guys will go over that car the same way they’re going over the room at the motel.”
“They won’t find any evidence of me in either,” Julie said.
The two men exchanged a look. Sensing the significance of it, Julie sank onto the arm of the chair that Derek had looked so comfortable sitting in the night before. “They already have, haven’t they?”
Dodge said, “A strand of hair that looks like yours was found on the car’s headrest, passenger side, caught in the nap of the upholstery. I say ‘looks like yours’ because it’ll be sent to the lab for a match.”
“I was never in any car driven by Billy Duke. Creighton must have taken a strand of hair from my brush. Something. I don’t know! All I know, and know absolutely, is that he’s responsible for this. All of it. We should check to see if he was in Nebraska at the time of Billy Duke’s trial.”
“I don’t follow,” Dodge said.
“He could have killed that widow for Billy.”
“That train movie scenario?”
Dodge’s tone suggested derision, which she ignored. “Exactly like that. He killed that woman to prevent her from testifying against Billy, which obligated Billy to kill Paul for him.”
“How would a playboy in Atlanta learn about a case of extortion in Omaha?”
“I don’t know.”
“The widow and her larcenous lover might have been big news in Nebraska, but—”
“I don’t know how he did it!” she shouted, cutting him off. “I just know he did.” She turned, appealing to Derek, and said, “Don’t you see? He’s a genius. He’s bold. He doesn’t have any fear because he doesn’t have a conscience. He’s probably watched a hun dred movies where someone is framed for murder. He would know what to do to make me look guilty. It would be a game to him. He would delight…” Realizing that she was beginning to sound desperate and hysterical, she rolled her lips inward to avoid saying anything more.
After a time, Dodge coughed, hawked, swallowed. “Derek told me that Creighton paid a visit to the gallery yesterday.”
“He terrorized me. Although I’m sure you don’t believe that, or you think I’m exaggerating.”
“Look, Ms. Rutledge, what I think is that the world would be a better place without this guy in it. If he’s the one who killed Maggie, he’s a motherfucking sadist. But his picture’s been shown to the Korean woman who runs the motel, to the other residents there, to the staff at the Moultrie, where you and Paul Wheeler were cozied up. Nobody recognized him. Or that fancy car of his, either, and it’s bound to have attracted attention.”
“He has another car. An SUV of some kind. I think he has several vehicles.”
Dodge jotted that down and said, “I’ll check it out,” but Julie didn’t think it was a top priority with him.
“He keeps his private life very private. What I mean is, you called him a playboy, but that’s a misnomer. Playboys are seen with beautiful women. They host lavish parties. They have coteries of hangers-on. They crave and cultivate attention. Creighton does none of that. Conceited as he is, don’t you think it’s odd that he keeps so to himself and avoids the public eye?”
“Lots of rich people shun publicity.”
“But Creighton’s shunning it contradicts his personality. There must be a reason for it. Have you checked to see if he has a police record?”
“I’ve been kinda busy today,” Dodge replied testily.
Derek, speaking for the first time in several minutes, said, “Tell her about the phone.”
She glanced at him where he stood at the window, his back to the room. His back to her.
“Billy Duke had a cell phone on him when he died.” Dodge reached into his breast pocket again and withdrew a sheet of paper. “Lady friend of mine, policewoman, confiscated this for me in exchange for a fancy dinner at the restaurant of her choice. It’s a record of all the calls made from that phone. First one was made night before last, indicating it was a new phone.”
“None of Creighton’s numbers are on there,” Derek said.
“He would have insisted that Billy Duke not call him.”
Dodge passed her the sheet. “On the other hand…”
Julie scanned the number that had been underlined each time it appeared on the list. “The gallery.”
“Called five times yesterday.”
“He did call. I mean, I guess it was him.”
Derek came around and gave her a hard look.
“There was no reason to mention it,” she said defensively. “I answered the gallery phone three times yesterday when the caller didn’t speak. You don’t have to take my word for it. You can ask Kate.”
“She was on an extension?”
“No. But she said it had happened to her, too. Look how short these calls are. A minute or less.”
“A lot can be said in sixty seconds.”
She shook the paper at Dodge. “This only proves he placed the call. It doesn’t prove anyone talked to him.”
Derek looked at Dodge, who frowned and said, “Still doesn’t look good. Especially since he went to the gallery that time asking for you.”
“I never met the man.”
“Then why would he come to see you, Ms. Rutledge?”
“I have no idea.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Huh.” Dodge studied her for a moment, then looked aside and began patting his pockets.
Apparently it was a nervous habit that signified something to Derek. “What, Dodge?”
The older man stopped fidgeting. He looked at Derek, then at her. When he looked back at Derek, his expression was sympathetic. “One last thing they’ve dug up, and, Counselor, it’s the mother lode.”
“Tell us.”
Dodge tilted his head toward Julie but didn’t take his eyes off Derek. “She knows. Ask her.”
Everything inside her began to crumble. Molecule by molecule she felt herself collapsing on the inside. It had been inevitable that they would find out, but she had hoped that, before they did, Creighton and his crony Billy Duke would be exposed as Paul’s assassins.
“What?” Derek demanded, and when neither she nor Dodge said anything, he repeated it angrily. “Goddammit,
what?”
Julie tried to speak, but her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She managed only to stammer his name imploringly.
Dodge heaved himself up and walked to the door. He even took hold of the doorknob before he turned back into the room. “That Tuesday wasn’t one of their ordinary afternoon rendezvous. She and Wheeler were celebrating something that day. Right, Ms. Rutledge?”
Still unable to speak, she nodded.
“Sanford and Kimball had to go to their supervisor and ask for his clout. He came down hard on Wheeler’s lawyer, and even then, the pertinent file had to be subpoenaed before the lawyer would give it up.”
“File on what?” Derek asked.
“Paul Wheeler’s will. He’d had it changed. It hasn’t been probated yet, but Ms. Rutledge is due to inherit his entire fortune. His share of the business, his property. Every last cent.”
The words reverberated like the tolling of a death knell, then were followed by a dense silence.
Derek stared at Julie with a mix of incredulity and barely suppressed rage.
Slowly she shook her head from side to side, knowing that if she said anything at that moment, it was sure to be the wrong thing.
Dodge said, “I’ll be outside.”
BOOK: Smash Cut
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