A Specter of Justice (6 page)

Newly sighed. “All right. I'll get the tech over and we'll copy the message. Then I'll have a little chat with the good reverend.”

“That's one way,” I said with little enthusiasm. “Or I could just pick up the phone and call the number. The message is on my machine.”

“Why not?” Newly said. “Can I listen from Nakayla's extension?”

“Yeah. Once I dial through, I'll wave for you to pick up the lit line.”

I punched in the number and signaled Newly. A click sounded as he lifted the receiver but the phone was still ringing on the other end.

No one answered and I expected perhaps the best we would get was someone's voicemail. Then the ringing stopped as the connection was made. I heard a clunk as the phone struck a hard object like the floor or a table.

A groggy voice whispered, “Hello?”

It was only one word but I recognized the speaker immediately.

Hewitt Donaldson.

Chapter Seven

“Hello?” Hewitt repeated.

Newly looked at me and frowned, expecting me to engage the mystery voice in conversation. He didn't recognize Hewitt.

Before I could somehow extricate myself from the awkward situation, Hewitt said, “Sam, is that you?”

We were done in by Hewitt reading his caller ID. I had his number stored under his name on my cell phone and had long forgotten the actual digits. That's why I didn't recognize them on the office system. The curse of making things too convenient.

“Yes, Hewitt,” I confessed. “I'm here with Detective Newland.” I put Hewitt on alert so he would choose his words carefully. I had no idea why he would have left so tasteless a message that was beyond even his dark humor, but I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” His groggy voice instantly cleared. “How can I help you?”

Newly gave me a nod to start talking.

“Hewitt, did you leave me a voicemail on my office phone last night?”

“Your office?”

“Yes.”

“You mean after we spoke at eleven?”

“Yes. After that.”

“Why would I have called your office? I knew you weren't there.”

I looked at Newly through the open doors and shrugged. I didn't know how much the detective wanted me to reveal about the message's content.

“Donaldson. This is Newland. Would you mind telling me where you were at one-thirty this morning?”

“Yes, I would mind. But I'll make an exception. I was with Nathan Armitage. We were closing down the Thirsty Monk till two.”

The Thirsty Monk Pub was a popular watering hole around the corner from my office and just a few blocks from Pack Square.

“Did anyone borrow your phone?” Newly asked.

Hewitt paused a moment, analyzing the questions to deduce the reason for our call. “Someone left a message from my number, right?”

“Yes,” I said, taking control of the conversation away from Newly. “A vague threat to me and a disparaging remark about Nakayla. Your name didn't show up on the office machine.”

“Well, it wasn't me and no one used my phone. It was in my pocket the entire evening.”

“And this is your number?” Newly rattled off ten digits.

“Yes.”

“Is it unlisted?”

“No. You can find it on my business card. But, I have no idea how it appeared on Sam's office phone.”

“Some sort of spoof device,” Newly said.

I had no idea what he was talking about and I knew Hewitt was even less tech savvy than me. “You want to explain?” I asked.

“You buy a special computer card or a piece of hardware and it substitutes a bogus ID. You can make it read anything you want. There was a huge scam last year run out of India that impersonated the IRS. Those initials actually appeared as the caller. The crooks bilked millions out of intimidated taxpayers.”

“Should I listen to the message?” Hewitt asked. “Maybe I'll recognize the son of a bitch.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Newly agreed. “Meanwhile I'll see if the phone company can break the spoof layer and reveal the actual number.”

“Good. If there are any charges I can press, then, by God, I will. Sam, how long are you planning to be in the office?”

“I'll stay till you get here.”

“I'll see you in an hour.” Hewitt hung up.

Newly and I resettled in the middle room, he on the sofa and I in an opposite chair.

“So, what do you think about the call?” I asked. “Someone making trouble for me or for Hewitt?”

Newly rubbed a palm across his grizzled chin. “Hard to say. We know Donaldson's pissed off a lot of people. And you're no saint, especially in the eyes of the Atwoods. That call was a good way to spite both of you. And pretty chicken shit since it came when there was no way you'd be in the office.”

“The phone number spoof seems sophisticated for a backwoods preacher.”

Newly looked at me with disapproval. “Don't underestimate Horace Brooks, Mister Hotshot Detective. He plays that backwoods preacher role all the way to the bank.”

“What's the benefit for him getting involved in Molly Staton's murder?” I asked.

“He's God's warrior going up against satanic forces. This whole ghost thing was an easy target. He's championing the Atwoods and fighting evil. He couldn't have scripted it any better.”

“But Molly's the victim here?”

“Yes, and he'll skate over that. Probably claim he was only trying to warn people about the dangers of fooling with dark spirits. It was a tragedy brought on by Molly's own actions and not through anything he said.”

“You going to check him out?”

Newly nodded. “Once I get a clean copy of the voice and a reliable trace on the call.” He cocked his head, eyeing me carefully. “Why did Hewitt call you at eleven?”

“He was checking on us. He invited Nakayla and me to join him for a drink. He knew we'd been through an ordeal and thought we might want to unwind. Going to a bar was the last thing Nakayla and I wanted to do. We went straight back to my place.”

“And apparently Hewitt found other company.” Newly stood. “I've got to get back to the station. I'll send our tech over.”

I got to my feet and escorted Newly to the door.

He stepped into the hall and then turned around. “Did you see Hewitt at all last night?”

“Yes. When we were picking up our radios from Nathan Armitage. They were more reliable than using our cell phones.”

“Do you remember what he was wearing?”

Alarm bells rang in my head. Newly asked the question casually, but it wasn't a casual question. “A tan jacket and one of those Hawaiian shirts he likes. Why?”

“No particular reason. Just a little due diligence since his number popped up on that message.”

I didn't believe him and I irrationally spoke out in defense of my friend. “Are you doing due diligence on your partner?”

Newly's face hardened. “What's Tuck have to do with it?”

“I understand he and Molly were an item until a few months ago. If that becomes well known and a former boyfriend isn't fully investigated, people might think due diligence was being selectively applied.”

He reddened. “I would have expected more from you, Sam. I don't take shortcuts and I don't give passes.”

I realized I'd overstepped and called his integrity into question. Newly deserved better from me. I threw up my hands. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I guess I'm just upset and I know Hewitt had nothing to do with it. Please accept my apology.”

Newly took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay.” He headed for the elevator.

As I stepped back into the office, I heard him say, “Tuck doesn't have an alibi. I've already checked.”

The police tech arrived about twenty minutes later. He clipped two wires to the receiver in Nakayla's office, recorded the message, and left me alone with my list of names and no idea what to do next. I thought about calling Nakayla, but if she was able to sleep, I didn't want to wake her.

Shortly after nine, Hewitt stormed in without knocking. He looked far better than Newly had. The green-on-red Hawaiian shirt had been exchanged for a red-on-green pattern. His bright eyes and clean-shaven face belied that he'd been out past two in the morning.

“Let me hear it,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“Well, good morning to you too, Hewitt.”

“Yeah, good morning.” He headed for my office without waiting for me to get up from the sofa.

I found him staring at the phone as if challenging the device to repeat the offensive message ascribed to him.

I pressed the speaker button.

“Mr. Blackman. You have crossed Helen's Bridge into the valley of the shadow of death. You and your black harlot. Be warned that the scythe of justice is sweeping away all who are found guilty.”

“A self-righteous crank,” Hewitt proclaimed. “Where does it show my number?”

I pointed to the LED readout displaying his number and the one-thirty time log.

“And this spoof device created it?”

“That's what Newland thinks. He hopes the phone company can determine the real source of the call.”

“Spoof. This sure as hell isn't a joke.”

“I know. You recognize the voice?”

“Play it again and crank the volume up as loud as it will go.”

We listened again, both leaning closer to the vibrating speaker.

“Nah,” Hewitt said. “I've got no idea. But the asshole's trying to sound melodramatic with that ominous whisper.”

“And he also sounds like he's reading a script. You haven't had any run-ins with the preacher Horace Brooks, have you?”

Hewitt stepped away from the desk as if now wanting to distance himself from the caller. “Not personally. I've heard he's been bad-mouthing me since I took the custody case for the Atwood twins. But I don't know what he'd have to gain by making it look like I was threatening you.”

“I mentioned Brooks to Newland so at least the preacher's name's in the pool.” I remembered Newly's comment that Brooks had been on the late TV newscast. “Let's try something.”

I sat at my computer and opened the Internet browser. One of my bookmarks was the local television station and I clicked on the homepage for their news. As I suspected, the murder at Helen's Bridge was the top story in the video-on-demand replay section. Hewitt bent over my shoulder and we saw a reporter with crime scene tape and a portion of the bridge framed behind him. After briefly describing the dramatic appearance of Molly Staton's body, he gave a brief background on the charity fundraiser and stated not everyone in the community supported the event.

The video cut to Horace Brooks, a lean-faced white man with dark, narrow-set eyes. He wore a crisp blue suit, white dress shirt, and red tie. Dapper for a backwoods preacher and for so late at night. Framed on either side of him stood the Atwoods. Cletus wore a gray suit and yellow tie; Nelda was in a Sunday dress and her only jewelry was a silver cross around her neck. Each held a framed photograph. Although the single boy in the pictures seemed to be the same, I knew the Atwoods clutched individual portraits of their twin grandsons, Johnny and Jimmy.

“Our hearts go out to the family of Miss Staton,” Brooks began. I paused the video.

“I think they're wearing TV makeup,” I said.

“Brooks is a slick son of a bitch,” Hewitt said. “He's staged an appearance that parades Cletus and Nelda Atwood out as the most responsible child-rearers since June and Ward Cleaver. I know for a fact Cletus has been cited for numerous DUIs. The apple didn't fall far from the tree when it came to him and Clyde.”

I clicked play. Brooks shook his head solemnly. “But as horrible as these events are, we will continue to pursue the Atwoods' rights to their grandchildren.” He turned his gaze from the offscreen interviewer and peered straight into the camera. “Helen Wilson might have that hotshot Hewitt Donaldson but the Atwoods have Jesus.” The coverage cut back to the reporter at the bridge who wrapped up stating that the investigation was just beginning and that the TV news team would be working around the clock to bring us all the latest developments.

Hewitt snorted. “I can smell a con man through the computer monitor.”

“A con man, yes, but is he a murderer?”

“He is if his rhetoric drove someone to murder Molly. I wouldn't defend the bastard if he offered me the keys to the Pearly Gates.”

“What do you think about his voice?” I asked.

“Kinda of preachy, but that's to be expected. The voice on your phone was deeper.”

“Too deep for Brooks to mimic?”

Hewitt moved to the corner of my desk. “Play it again, Sam.” A chuckle broke through his exasperation as he realized he'd uttered the oft-quoted line. “Actually Bogart said, ‘Play it, Sam.'”

We listened again, this time for pitch. And I caught a sound between “your black harlot” and “be warned” that I'd not noticed before.

“I can't make a judgment since the voice is disguised,” I said, “but did you hear a higher-pitched background sound?”

“All the way through it?” Hewitt asked.

“No.”

I told him the spot where to concentrate and played the message again. Hewitt bent and put his ear next to the blaring speaker.

When the message ended, he said, “Glasses. I think it's the tinkle of glasses and some distant conversation.”

“I agree. Which means Newly's more sophisticated audio equipment should be able to enhance the ambient sound.”

Hewitt ran a palm over his gray hair and tugged at his ponytail as if trying to stimulate his brain. “What about Cletus? Do you know if Newland is looking at him for this phone call?”

“No. But frankly the call is a flea on the tail of the dog. His first priority is checking out everyone who knew Molly Staton would be at that bridge. It's unlikely Cletus Atwood had that information.”

Hewitt stared out the window to Beaucatcher Mountain in the distance. “Maybe. You said you and Newly believe Molly was killed elsewhere.”

“Yes.”

“Then how do we know her murderer didn't force that information out of her? That could also explain why she wasn't in the dress she was supposed to be wearing.”

As an investigator, my modus operandi sought to narrow the suspect pool. Hewitt's question came from the mind of a defense attorney; even though he had no client, his first line of action was to increase the number of possible perpetrators.

“That's a good point,” I said. “I'll raise it with Newly.”

He turned to face me. “On the other hand, we have evidence of careful planning. Do we know when Molly was last seen alive?”

“I'm sure Newly's running that down.”

“The closer to her time of death, the less likely the Helen's Bridge spectacle was orchestrated after her killer extracted the information. Too much to do and too many props to collect.”