The Demise (24 page)

Underwood beckoned him closer. “Hold on to that bag, Matt. It’s got the new will, but there’s more. Much more. Can you follow us to the hospital?”

“Absolutely. Are you going to be all right?”

“Yeah, tomorrow I’m handing in my resignation. Life’s too short for this, y’know?”

Matt patted his arm. “Take care. I’ll see you in a little while.” He motioned the paramedics back over. “Which hospital?”

“St. Thomas.”

“Good. Thanks.”

Matt watched them load Underwood into the ambulance, then took a minute to chat with the Davidson County police. Afterward, Matt approached Sam and Julie again.

“All right, Mr. Olsen, I’d like to get a statement from you if that’s okay?”

“Sure. Glad to help.”

Sam said he lived on his yacht and had been reading when he heard a commotion outside. As he stepped out onto the deck of his craft, he looked back toward the main dock. That’s when he saw two men fighting at the other end of the dock.

“You sure it was a guy—the one doing the punching?”

“Can’t say for sure, but I’ve never seen a woman hit like that.”

“Could you see what he was wearing?”

“That end of the dock, closest to the gate, is fairly well lit, but all I could see were his dark pants and a dark hoodie that covered most of his face. That’s when I heard a car horn blaring and a second later, he took off.”

Julie beamed. He ignored her.

“Tall? Short? Caucasian? Black?”

“Honestly, I couldn’t tell. Like she said, it all happened so fast.”

“Anything else?”

He added that he and several other marina residents hurried to see what happened. That’s when he found Julie sprawled on the edge of the dock trying to reach the duffel bag in the water. A few more questions, then Matt took down his cell number, left a card, and said he’d be in touch.

The police wanted statements from Julie. After flashing his ID, Matt monitored the conversation, interrupting when their questions broached the reason she and Underwood had come to the marina. Thankfully, they assumed the duffel in his hand was his, so they didn’t confiscate it as evidence. He gave them one of his cards as well, then escorted Julie to his Jeep. He opened the door for her, steeling himself when she grimaced as she climbed in, but said nothing until he slipped behind the wheel.

It took every ounce of control to keep his anger in check. “I should’ve asked those cops to arrest you and book you for interfering with an investigation.”

“You wouldn’t.” Julie stared at him. “Would you?”

“Oh, but I would. And if I weren’t in such a rush to get to the hospital, I’d take you home right this minute and lock you up for the rest of your life.”

“Matt, I was only trying to—”

“Don’t. Don’t even go there. I’ve heard all your excuses so many times, I’ve lost count. But you know what? I’m the one who’s an idiot. I’m the one who should be punished because I keep forgiving you and falling for you over and over and over. In fact, that makes me quite insane, because one of the key definitions of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. So there you have it—Matt Bryson is insane.”

She was quiet, but he resisted the urge to glance at her. They rode in silence for a few minutes. Matt concentrated on the roads, uncertain how to get to the hospital from this part of town. He was about to check his GPS when she interrupted his thoughts.

“Just stay on River Road through the next intersection.”

“I was—”

“That’ll put you on Charlotte, then it’s a straight shot toward town. We’ll cut over on Hillwood to Harding Pike. It’s not far.”

He followed her directions, but said nothing for a few miles. The war battling inside his head finally nudged him to ask. “Are you okay? I mean, physically?”

She looked over at him for a long time before answering. “Pretty sore, actually, but thanks for asking.”

“Do you need medical attention?”

“I don’t think so. I’m just really tired.”

“Imagine that.”

“Yeah. Imagine that.”

Chapter 27

Three hours and twelve stitches later, a very sore and shaken Jim Underwood was released from the hospital. As Matt helped Underwood into the wheelchair, he made sure Julie was out of hearing range, then quietly asked Jim not to discuss the contents of the duffel bag in front of her. He agreed. Moments later they loaded Underwood into the back seat of Matt’s car and were soon on their way back to Braxton.

Julie turned to see Jim. “Are you sure you’re okay? Where are your glasses?”

“I have no idea. They must’ve flown off with the first punch.”

“You look like you’ve been the punching bag for the WWF, Jim. They should have kept you overnight.”

“No need. I can’t stand being cooped up like that. I would’ve bolted first chance I got.”

Matt caught Underwood’s eye in the rearview mirror. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Should we tell Mrs. Lanham about what happened tonight?”

“No way.”

“But the police will surely connect the dots and notify her that you entered the yacht without her knowledge.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“What’s in that bag?” Julie asked. “I thought Peter said the new will was in a packet. Was the duffel in the safe too?”

“No, I found it—”

“Julie, we’re not going to talk about what is or isn’t in the bag,” Matt said.

“Why not? You don’t have to read the will to me or anything like that, but I’m just curious why Jim needed a bag to carry out one manila packet.”

“You’ll just have to wait and find out later. Let’s not forget this whole episode never would have happened if you’d stayed out of it.” He noticed his knuckles were pinched white on the steering wheel. “I don’t even want to think about the repercussions if that will had sunk and been damaged beyond repair. Which is why the subject is off limits.”

She saluted. “Yes, SIR, Agent Bryson.”

“You’re a laugh a minute.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Matt.”

“Is it always like this between the two of you?” Underwood’s playful question silenced them momentarily.

“Actually, it is,” Matt answered. “And much worse.”

Julie slouched down in the seat. “Go ahead, guys. Have your fun.”

Back in Braxton, their first stop was the loft. Matt helped Julie up the stairs. As she unlocked the door, she paused.

“I hate this, Matt. I really do.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “There’s no point in apologizing again, so I won’t. But I’m sad that we keep ending up in this same place, always at each other’s throats and constantly arguing.” She turned the key and let herself in through the open door.

“I agree. For two people who say they care about each other, it’s a dangerous place to be.” He turned and slowly started down the stairs. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure there’s much hope for us.”

He continued down the stairs without looking back. As he opened the door to the sidewalk, he heard the gentle click of her door close. For some reason, it sounded like a nail in a coffin.

Matt drove Underwood to the Lanham’s estate, then helped him up the stairs to his apartment over the garage. He couldn’t believe how spacious the place was until he realized it rested above a five-car garage. The décor was high-end but masculine, like something you’d find at an exclusive hunting lodge or golf resort.

“Nice place.”

“I can’t complain. Mrs. Lanham had it redecorated a few years ago. The designer was a bit over the top for me, but I appreciate that he asked what I liked or didn’t like. It was the first time it felt like there was a bit of
me
in this place.” He paused for a minute, then, “Do you have time to stay? I’d like to see what else is in that bag.”

“You sure you’re up to it?” Matt asked.

“I’m fine. Really. I’ll put on a pot of coffee—unless you’d like a beer?”

“Coffee’s fine, but you go stretch out on your sofa and let me make the coffee. I just need a minute to run down to the car and get the bag out of my trunk.”

Ten minutes later, after toweling off the dampness of the bag, Matt snapped on latex gloves before pulling out the contents. On top, he found the packet labeled “My Will.”

“Is this where you found the will? In the bag?”

“No, I got it out of the safe that’s behind a false door in his closet. I grabbed the packet, closed the safe door and locked it, then turned to go. That’s when I noticed the duffel hidden almost out of sight on the floor of his closet. I’d never seen it before, and I know pretty much all of Peter’s bags and luggage. So I knelt down and unzipped it.”

“I don’t suppose you had any of these on you?” He wiggled his latex-covered fingers.

“No, I didn’t even think about it, to be honest. I found a large manila folder—much like the one with the will—and browsed through the contents. That’s when I saw the letters. Go ahead. You’ll see.”

Matt could feel his pulse rising as he carefully pulled everything from the bag and spread it out on the coffee table.

“Peter was being blackmailed.”

Matt stopped and stared at him. “What?”

“That’s why I knew this was important. That’s why I tossed the bag in the water when that guy was about to jump me. I couldn’t risk him taking off with it.”

“Who? Who was blackmailing Lanham?”

“I didn’t get that far. You tell me.”

Matt started organizing the materials on the table. He noticed the envelopes were all in chronological order, all postmarked in the Nashville area, or so he assumed. Peter’s name and address were printed, not handwritten.

“Looks like this was the first letter, so let’s start here. It’s dated the fifth of January of last year. Postmarked in Nashville, zip 37211.”

“That’s over in the Antioch area east of town. So what’s it say?”

“‘I know your secret.’
That’s it.” Matt turned the paper over. Nothing. “That’s all it says.” He opened the enclosed newspaper clipping. “Obviously a photocopy of the original newsprint. It’s dated Monday, June 9, 1969. Headline reads, ‘Franklin Teen Found Dead.’”

“Is there a name?”

“Yeah. Here’s what it says:

Franklin resident Billy Wendell, age 14, was found dead a few miles south of Leiper’s Fork on Sunday. Wendell disappeared two months ago, reported missing by his mother, Patsy Jo Wendell on Easter Sunday, April 6th. The body was discovered by two Leiper’s Fork residents who wish to remain anonymous. The two were searching for a missing pet when they found Wendell’s remains tangled in a marshy cove six miles south of Leiper’s Fork. The Williamson County Coroner’s Office was able to identify Billy Wendell by matching dental records provided by his mother. The coroners will perform an autopsy this week, though authorities are skeptical of finding evidence as the body was badly decomposed.”

Matt showed the picture of Billy Wendell to Underwood.

“Can’t read without my glasses. There’s another pair on the bedside table in my room. Would you mind?”

“No problem.” A moment later, Matt returned with the glasses and handed them to Underwood who looked over the news story.

“Oh yeah, I remember when that happened. Really sad story. Single mom, if I’m remembering right. They kept saying it was like the kid vanished into thin air. It was all over the news.”

“They ever find out what happened?”

“I don’t think so, but I can’t really remember.”

“Is it possible it was someone Mr. Lanham knew?”

“I have no idea. What was the date again?”

“It says Wendell’s body was found on June 8, 1969.”

“Let’s see. Peter was just thirteen when I started driving for the elder Mr. Lanham in ‘65, so that means he would have been—what, seventeen? Eighteen? Still in high school. So I don’t know how they would have known each other, but who knows. The Wendell kid lived down in Franklin. That’s close to an hour from Braxton.”

Matt set the letter and clipping aside. He opened the next letter dated March 3 of last year. Same thing—printed address, no return address. “The postmark on this one is 37115.”

“I believe that’s up in the Madison area north of Nashville.”

Matt unfolded the letter. “This one’s just one word:
‘Murderer.’
Well, he’s a man of few words, this blackmailer.”

“Man?”

“Or woman.”

Underwood nodded. “What’s in the news copy?”

Matt unfolded another headline in the
Tennessean
, this one dated June 13, 1969
.
“‘Wendell Autopsy Reveals Suspicious Death.’
It says,
‘Williamson County coroners found blunt force trauma injuries on the body of Billy Wendell, suggesting the victim could have been attacked or injured prior to his death.’
It goes on to say, ‘
The victim’s pelvis and hip bones were crushed, and his skull cracked. The injuries are indicative of those found in vehicular accidents or homicides.’”

“I don’t get it. What’s any of this got to do with Peter?”

“Obviously, the person sending these is implicating Peter’s involvement in the kid’s disappearance, either directly or indirectly.”

The next letter was postmarked May 1, 2013 from a 37215 zip code which Underwood said was in the Green Hills area.

“How do you know all these zip codes off the top of your head?” Matt asked as he reached for his coffee.

“You spend a lot of time driving around town, looking up addresses, you learn the zip codes. Long before Google Maps and GPS, we had to find things the old-fashioned way—on maps printed on folded paper.”

“Makes sense. Okay, this one says,
‘Poor little Billy. Never knew what hit him.’”

“Do you suppose—”

“—Peter may have accidentally hit the kid? My thoughts exactly.”

“Maybe a hit-and-run?” Underwood asked, scratching the bandage on the back of his head.

“He would have been old enough to drive at seventeen,” Matt added.

“Wait, wait, wait. I took care of all the Lanham’s cars, including Peter’s. He drove a brand new Mustang back then. His first car. He babied that car like you wouldn’t believe. A hit like that would have dented the front fender, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, there would definitely be some damage to the vehicle.”

“He never had so much as a scratch on that Mustang.”

“How many cars did the family have back then? Do you remember?”

“Let me think. I’d say four, counting Peter’s Mustang.”

“And you don’t recall any of them having front end damage around that time?”

“No, never.” I would have—no, wait! The Mercedes . . .” Underwood sat up, grimacing but excited. “I can’t believe I forgot about this. Mr. and Mrs. Lanham were out of the country, and Peter’s Mustang was in the shop. He borrowed his mother’s Mercedes without telling me. The next morning, I opened the garage and found a note from Peter taped to the windshield. It said a deer had run out in front of him and he couldn’t stop. The dent was substantial. When I saw him later that afternoon, he was terrified of his parents finding out and begged me not to tell them when they got back. I believed him—that it was a deer he’d hit. It happens often around here, particularly in the outlying areas. So I took it to a body shop and had it fixed before they came home and never mentioned it.”

“Meaning, Peter got away with murder,” Matt said.

“Literally.” Underwood leaned back with a sigh.

Matt folded his arms across his chest. “Though, technically, the charge would be involuntary manslaughter.”

“Either way, Billy Wendell died.”

“True.”

They both fell silent. Matt mentally tracked the implications of that fatal accident and the cover-up which spanned decades. He thumbed through the rest of the letters. “Hopefully, the rest of these will fill in the blanks.”

The next letter had only three words:
Dead Man Talking.
The copied news article, dated June 15, 1969, gave a backstory of Billy Wendell’s young life. As the only child of a single mother who worked two jobs, Billy spent most of his time on his own. He was known to hop a bus and travel all around the greater Nashville area. Sometimes he’d carry a fishing pole and spend the day roaming his favorite fishing holes. Other times, he’d hang out at the malls, ride a canoe down the Harpeth River, or stop by convenience stores to pick up beef jerky and Mountain Dews. When he went missing, many of the store owners and mall employees called authorities, filling in the gaps of Billy’s untethered life. Most assumed Billy’s was a case of being in the wrong place at the right time—a young teenager just out for a day of fishing.

The next letter:
Will you tell them or shall I?

The news clipping, dated June 29, 1970, indicated the investigation into the death of Billy Wendell had run cold, but would remain an open case. A name and number to call was included for anyone with information, no matter how trivial.

“So Peter kept getting letters that threatened to tie him to the death of Billy Wendell, but for what purpose?” Underwood asked. “Just to taunt him? Make him feel the heat? Don’t blackmailers usually demand a big chunk of money to keep the target from going to the police?”