Smash Cut (32 page)

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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

BOOK: Smash Cut
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C
AROL MAHONEY?
Her face—he could see only half of it—was a mix of surprise and wariness. Her eyes darted, looking behind him. “Yes?”
Creighton smiled. “Thank heaven. I had the dickens of a time finding you.”
She had opened the front door only as far as the chain lock would allow. He recognized her from the photos accompanying news reports of Billy’s trial in Nebraska.
“Who are you?”
“Sorry.” He flashed another grin. “Peter Jackson,” he said, betting she didn’t know one movie director from another, even Academy Award winners. “I’m a feature writer for
The Atlanta Journal

Her face, already swollen from crying, became belligerent. “I don’t want to talk to a reporter.”
Before she could close the door, he said, “Ariel told me you were gun-shy of the press. She warned me you’d probably slam the door in my face.”
She hesitated. “You talked to Ariel?”
“Not in person. On the phone.” Citing her friend and confidante had helped, but there was still indecision in her moist eyes. “Look, I’ll wait while you call her, check me out.” It was a bluff, and while she was debating it, he was thinking,
Get me off the porch before someone drives by and sees me
.
“I don’t want to bother Ariel tonight,” she said. “She has this guy coming over for dinner.”
He laughed. “Ah. That must’ve been why she sounded breathless over the phone.”
“She just met him. She’s excited.”
Am I good, or what?
“Then I’m even more glad she took time out to talk to me. I was persistent, I’m afraid.”
“I guess you want to ask me about Billy?”
“Billy Duke is big news today. Dying in the home of his victim’s mistress. Hell of a thing.”
Her expression turned sour. “Not if you knew Billy.”
“I didn’t. That’s why I wanted to ask you a few questions. Get your take on him.”
“I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to go through that again.”
“Like what you went through in Omaha?”
“You know about that?”
He gave her a sad smile. “I had to do my research, Carol. It’s my job.”
“I’m sorry then, Mr….”
“Jackson. Call me Peter.”
“You seem nice, Peter, and I’m sorry you drove all this way and took the trouble to find me. But I don’t wish to comment.” Again, she was about to close the door. Of course he could have put his foot to it, busted it and the flimsy chain, but that was not how he wanted to do this. It would be better if there was no sign of forced entry.
Her body would be found days later, and it would remain a mystery who her attacker had been. So far she hadn’t noticed that he hadn’t arrived in a car. It was parked down the road, in a thicket, out of sight. The cottage couldn’t have been better positioned for what he was about to do. If he’d been scouting locations to film a woman-in-jeopardy movie, this would have been perfect. It was off the beaten path, had no discernible address, and the nearest neighbor was half a mile away.
“I understand your reservations,” he said quickly, before she shut the door. “Jesus, after all that went down in Omaha, who could blame you? But I want to give you fair warning. One of my colleagues is doing a front pager on Billy Duke that’ll run tomorrow. You’re mentioned. I read his draft, and it wasn’t flattering to you. He’s become a card-carrying misogynist since his wife left him.”
Lowering his voice to a sympathetic pitch, he said, “My story would take a different slant on you and your relationship with Billy. I’m not out to paint you as one of his whorish—”
“The other reporter called me whorish?”
Creighton shrugged helplessly. “He’s an asshole. I’ll set the record straight. But I can’t if you won’t talk to me.”
Through the crack in the door, she looked him up and down, and he could see her defenses weakening. “I was having a glass of wine on the back porch. Want to come around?”
He grinned, turned, and started for the corner of the house. If she didn’t change her mind and call Ariel to check him out, he was home free.
There was terrific irony at play here. Carol Mahoney had escaped the clutches of the suspected killer Billy Duke, only to be murdered by an unidentified person, seemingly without motive.
He could imagine one of the local cops venturing a guess that she’d been killed by a customer of the sports bar where she worked, where nightly she squeezed her sizable breasts into a T-shirt two sizes too small, where she lifted trays of chicken wings and beer mugs high above her head, providing an unrestricted view of her breasts to a boozy crowd of horny baboons.
She teased and taunted them to get better tips.
It would be concluded that one had got tired of being teased.
Anyone who’d ever seen a scary movie knew that the slut always died. The body count of bad girls considerably outweighed that of their virtuous counterparts. Jamie Lee Curtis’s promiscuous friend in
Halloween
. Diane Keaton in
Looking for Mr. Goodbar.
The list was endless.
He’d thought about leaving it alone. He really had. He’d thought seriously about just letting it go and allowing Carol Mahoney to go on living.
But there were problems with that. First, as he’d told Billy, she was a loose end he could ill afford. If Billy had been stupid enough to use his cell phone to place numerous calls to the house Carol shared with Ariel, then God knew what other stupid things he might have done. Creighton hadn’t been in a position to ask Ariel if she’d relented and told Billy where he could reach his former girlfriend. But Creighton had to assume that she had. For all he knew, Billy had been pouring out his heart to Carol for days. Weeks, even. At least the problem of the phone had been solved. It was now at the bottom of Stone Mountain Lake, unless a catfish had swallowed it.
Second, he’d promised Billy that he was going to do it, and although Billy was dead, he had been his partner and Creighton felt honor bound to keep his word to him.
Third, he wanted to.
He’d tortured people before and derived enormous pleasure from it, but the ultimate, all-time high had been choking that blowsy widow till he felt the life leave her body. It had been fucking fantastic. Actually, that was inaccurate. It had been far superior to fucking. No food, or drink, or drug, or haute couture, or car, or sex, nothing had equaled that rush of pleasure. That kind of transcendent bliss must be particular to taking another person’s life, to playing the god of their being, the dictator of their fate.
Ever since the widow went limp, he had wanted to feel that particular thrill again. Uncle Paul didn’t count. Neither did Billy, really. He hadn’t got to watch them die. To achieve that certain high, it must be a hands-on experience.
Finally, Carol had betrayed Billy when she testified against him, and she really shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that.
Ariel would continue to live only because someone at Christy’s might remember seeing her with him. No doubt the poor girl would be devastated when she learned of her roommate’s murder. Her loyalty to Carol was plain. She’d gone to great lengths to get her out of Omaha. She had endured Billy’s pestering in order to protect Carol from further involvement with him.
Of course she would never connect Carol’s murder to Creighton. If ever she was to discover that the heel who’d stood her up twice was not Bruno Anthony, but none other than Creighton Wheeler, there was a simple explanation: He often used a fake name upon meeting a woman, not wanting her to make the connection between him and Wheeler Enterprises. The instant women learned his real name, they latched on; they became leeches with a thirst for the family fortune. So only rarely did he give his real name to a woman he’d just met.
If this discovery concerned Ariel enough for her to take the matter to the police, he could truthfully say that his meetings with her had been random both times. While tipsy on apple martinis, she might have mumbled something about a former alliance with a criminal, but—
my God!
—who would ever have thought she was referring to Billy Duke, his uncle’s cold-blooded killer? What were the chances of that?
The detectives might think the chances of that were awfully slim, but they couldn’t prove otherwise. He and Ariel had met twice in the same bar by pure happenstance. He’d never phoned her, nor she him. Yes, he’d made a date with her, then later changed his mind. Granted, he was a cad for standing her up. But breaking a date, or even a heart, wasn’t a criminal offense.
And now that he knew she was even tangentially linked to the slayer of his late uncle Paul, well…Thank God he’d trusted his instincts and had skipped their dinner date.
All this ran through his mind as he made his way around the corner of the house. Carol was waiting on a screened back porch, pouring urine-colored wine into an ordinary drinking glass.
He noticed that the grass gave out several yards away from the foundation of the house and that the bare soil around it was moist. It was begging to have a footprint left in the mud. Not that he hadn’t taken a precaution against that. He was wearing the shoes he’d bought before going to Nebraska. They were eyesores and spoiled the perfection of his wardrobe, but if a shoe print was ever discovered, it would be traced back to Wal-Mart, where hundreds of thousands of men in the greater Atlanta area could have bought the shoes. Creighton had paid cash.
Note to self: Get rid of the shoes later tonight. He wouldn’t cry over the damn ugly things.
He stopped at the edge of the grass and nodded toward the wine. “How much of that have you had today?”
“Not enough.”
“Or too much. You didn’t go to work tonight. I went to the bar where Ariel said you’d be.” Actually, he’d put on a tracksuit over his clothes and pretended to be a jogger working a cramp out of his calf while he staked out the bar for half an hour. When he hadn’t seen her, he’d looked for her at her friend’s house, which he’d had to do some detective work to find.
Ariel had helped with the rest.
I haven’t been there, but she told me it’s at the end of this country road. A really cool place. Sorta old, but charming, you know? Has this giant wisteria vine that covers the whole south side. I think it was this girl’s grandmother’s place or something
.
Thank you, Ariel.
Carol was telling him what he had already deduced. “I called in sick today.”
“Who could blame you?”
“Ariel could. I told her I wasn’t feeling up to hustling drinks tonight. She urged me to. She’d put Billy out of her mind, and I should, too, she said. She’s more resilient than I am, I guess. Anyway, she thought I was going to go to work. But I just couldn’t.”
He looked around, taking in the scenery. Choosing his spot. He motioned toward the tree line thirty yards away. “Does the property stop there?”
“I’m not sure where the property line is. I know there’s a creek back there, and an old Indian burial ground.”
“Let’s walk.”
“Walk? It’s dark.”
“Which is what makes it so nice. The moon’s coming up.” Smiling engagingly, he extended his hand. “I think you need to get out of the house. You’ve been cooped up inside all day, right? Trying to sort out your conflicting feelings about Billy? You hated him, but you were once involved with him, and you can’t help but feel bad about the way he died.”
She ducked her head. “Exactly like that.”
“I could tell right off you’d been crying. If it’s any comfort to you, from what I’ve heard of that guy, he isn’t worth one single tear. Especially yours. Come on. You need the fresh air.”
And just like that, she was his.
She unlatched the screen door and pushed it open. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Her feet were bare. Her toenails were painted a dark magenta. He gave her legs an appreciative glance. “Ariel told me I’d know you as soon as I entered the bar. She said you were eye candy. I thought she was exaggerating. She wasn’t.”
She made a self-conscious gesture. “Thanks.”
Just then Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” began to play somewhere inside the house. Carol stopped and looked back. “That’s my cell.”
Fuck!
And no sooner had he thought that than another telephone began to ring. “And that’s the house phone. Somebody’s trying to reach me.”
“Damn him!” Creighton said.
Carol looked at him, startled by his vehemence. “Who?”
“My colleague. The bastard has got the same resources I do. I’m only surprised that I tracked you down first.”
“Why would he be tracking me down if he’s already written his story?”
“That’s how he operates. He writes a story the way he wants it to be, whether it’s accurate or not. Then he has the subject dispute it. Of course, what’s printed first is what the public believes.” Outrage coming off him in waves, he said, “You want to take the call?”
She hesitated, then firmly shook her head and started walking with purpose toward the trees. “No. He does sound like an asshole.”
Creighton reached for her hand, and she let him hold it.
With his other hand he loosened his necktie.
“Detective Kimball?”
“Ms. Rutledge?” The detective’s voice was surprised, tense, abrupt. “Where are you?”
Julie was riding shotgun. Ariel was in the backseat, sobbing and praying and frantically punching numbers into her cell phone. Derek was driving like a madman.
“Listen to me, please, Detective,” Julie said. “There’s a young woman in danger.”
“We have a warrant for your arrest, Ms. Rutledge.”
“And Derek and I have Ariel Williams.”
“Ariel—”
“We’re on our way to Athens to see her roommate.”
“Carol Mahoney,” the detective said.
“Creighton Wheeler is going to kill her if we don’t stop him.”
There was a short silence, then she heard Kimball say, “Pull over,” and assumed that she was addressing Sanford. “What are you talking about, Ms. Rutledge? What does Creighton Wheeler have to do with Ariel Williams’s roommate? How did you locate her, and what—”
“All that can wait.” Derek, who’d been listening on speaker, broke in. “This young woman’s life is at risk. Call the Athens PD, the Clarke County SO. Get somebody over to…Ariel, where’s she work?”
She hiccuped. “The…the…Red…”
“Red Dog?” he said.
“Red Dog,” she affirmed.
“The Red Dog,” he said loudly enough for Roberta Kimball to hear. “It’s a sports bar. Every cop in the vicinity will know it. Get a squad car over there. She needs police protection. Tell the officers to stay with her.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” Sanford’s voice came to them as though from the bottom of a well. He was on speaker, too. “I can put out an APB on your car, Mr. Mitchell.”
The threat rolled off Derek. “You can. It’ll cost time, and then if this girl dies tonight, you can carry the guilt to your grave with you.”
“Why would Wheeler want to kill Carol Mahoney?” Kimball asked.
“On the outside chance she can put him and the late Billy Duke together,” Julie said. She looked back at Ariel. “Any luck?”
“I’ve called her cell a dozen times. No answer. But she usually doesn’t answer while she’s at work. She calls me back when she gets a break. Or we text.”
“Did you send one?”
“About eight. She hasn’t responded. I suppose her battery could be dead, although we’re both conscientious about that.”
“Do you have the number at the house where she’s staying?”
Ariel began punching in the number.
During this conversation, Kimball and Sanford had been alternately shouting questions and making demands, all of which had been ignored.
Now Derek shouted back. “Are you going to get somebody over to that bar or not?”
“I’m not,” Kimball said. “Not till I know there’s cause.”
“We told you the cause,” Julie said.
“You’re prejudiced against Creighton Wheeler, Ms. Rutledge,” Sanford said.
Looking at Derek, Julie said, “I can tell them about the movie plot.”
“Movie? Did you say movie?” Kimball shouted into her phone. “Movie of what?”
“That would only waste time,” Derek said for Julie’s ears alone. “And it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Not in the frame of mind they’re in.” Speaking louder, he said, “Would you at least see if you can locate Creighton Wheeler?”
“For what purpose?”
“Ask him where he left the body.”
“What body?”
“Of the girl he killed while you two were jacking around.” Then to Julie, he said, “Hang up.” She did. “Let them chew on that for a while, see what they do.”
“She doesn’t answer at the house, either,” Ariel said from the backseat. “I’ve called five times. The voice mail picks up each time. Did you mean what you said about her body?” she asked tremulously.
“No, Ariel, that was only to shock the police into taking action.” But he cut his eyes to Julie, who knew he shared her fear for Carol Mahoney’s safety.
Derek’s phone rang. “Dodge,” he said to Julie.
As they had run from Ariel’s house to Derek’s car, he had dialed Dodge, told him to drop everything and start driving toward Athens. He told him to call for further information once he was under way.
Derek answered on the second ring. “Where are you?”
“Still about twenty minutes out.”
“How’d you get that far that fast?”
“I broke the law. Pushing ninety and ran all the red lights through Lawrenceville. Where am I going when I get there?”
“The Red Dog. It’s a bar—”
“I know it. I’ve been there on game day.”
“You’re looking for Carol Mahoney. Carol Mahoney. She’s a waitress there. Hold on a sec.” Looking at Ariel in the rearview mirror, Derek asked her to describe her roommate loudly enough for Dodge to hear.
“Petite. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Pretty. Big boobs.”
“Get that?”
“Big boobs.”
“She’ll be scared of you, so be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“Tell her you’re acting on Ariel’s behalf. Isolate her if you can, don’t take your eyes off her. If she wants to talk to Ariel, call me.”
“Why am I doing this?”
“We think Creighton Wheeler is going to try and kill her. But don’t tell her that.”
“Where are you?”
“Behind you, but past all the red lights in Lawrenceville.”
“I’ll call,” Dodge said and hung up.
Julie made a sudden decision. “I’m going to call the Athens police myself.”
“And turn yourself in?” Derek asked.
“I’ll let Ariel talk to them. She can tell them that she’s concerned about her friend because she hasn’t heard from her, and ask that an officer be sent to check on her.”
“It’s only been a few hours since they talked. That’s what they’ll say.”
“But they have to check it out, right?”
“Worth a try,” he said, but he didn’t sound hopeful.
Julie got the main number for the Athens PD from information.
“You know,” Derek said as she punched in the number, “you’ve been on your phone almost constantly for hours. The Atlanta PD could locate us that way.”
“We’ll have to take the risk.” Passing her phone back to Ariel, she said, “Mention that Carol was an ex-lover of Billy Duke. They’ll recognize his name.”
Ariel was tearful and scared, sometimes to the point of sounding hysterical. Julie wasn’t sure if that was an advantage or not. She hung up after five minutes. “They said the whole town’s turned upside down on account of the fraternities and sororities getting ready for rush week. Everybody’s out of place tonight. But they said they’d send somebody to the bar to ask about Carol when they could spare an officer.”
Julie looked at Derek. “What else can we do?”
“Nothing except wait till somebody gets back to us.”
“How much farther?”
He pressed his accelerator all the way to the floor.

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