Authors: J. T. Ellison
Chapter
20
Lynchburg, Virginia
SAM WAS FACEDOWN
on the cabin floor with all of Xander’s weight on her. The sound of gunshots grew intermittent and farther away until the shooting stopped completely.
“Let me up, Xander. We’re safe.”
With a sigh, he finally relented. She brushed herself off. She’d skinned a knee when he’d dived on top of her and forced her to the floor. At first she’d thought Davidson was shooting at Fletcher, but the shouting told her the two were united, running off after a suspect. She was very relieved and dabbed the blood off her knee with a tissue.
“Do you know who they were shooting at?” she asked.
“All I saw was a flash of red—I think it was the same person we were talking about earlier. Someone else wants info on Timothy Savage.” He touched the abraded skin gently. “Did I do that? I’m sorry.”
She kissed him quickly. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to go all caveman on me when guns are going off. It’s in the job description.”
He smiled, then cocked his head and turned toward the front door. “They’re coming back.”
Fletcher and Davidson appeared on the tiny front porch of the cabin, both sweating and out of breath.
Fletcher’s face was thunderous. “We missed him. And I’m getting damn sick of this ghost following us around.”
Davidson nodded. “It’s the same guy who was lurking around the funeral home. I’m going to bring in some officers and a couple of dogs, go after him before it gets dark. That’s twice today he’s run from me. There won’t be a third.”
“Well, don’t kill him,” Sam said. “He may be the elusive son and heir to Savage’s estate. I doubt us murdering his kid was part of Savage’s game plan. Maybe the boy knows his dad was murdered and he’s being extra careful, sneaking around in case we’re the killers.”
“Or he’s our suspect.” Davidson wiped his broad forehead with the tail of his white shirt. “Our dogs will tree him, not bite him. We’ll have a nice talk and get to the bottom of this. I don’t know why he’s hanging around, but he’s going to get
himself
killed if he doesn’t stop bumbling around our crime scenes. Speaking of which—”
He looked at Sam, distrust written all over his face. “I went to the lab and you never showed. Why not, who’s this and why don’t you just tell me what y’all are doing out here and quit playing games with me?”
Fletcher said, “Whoa, man. One at a time. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine, get it?”
Davidson crossed his arms and didn’t say a word.
“Okay. We’re here because Sam wanted to see what Savage’s ‘estate’ looked like. Now you share. What happened with Mac Picker?”
“All right. Mac let me look at the files. He’s not lying. There’s no reference to Timothy Savage in their system. Why didn’t you go to the lab like you were supposed to?”
“We got lost. Why did you assume we’d be out here at the crime scene?”
“One of my officers saw you driving out of town. You took the exit for Savage’s place, so I used my noggin and extrapolated that maybe you’d come on out here. What aren’t you telling me?”
Fletcher shrugged. “Nothing. You’ve got it all.”
Davidson stretched his arms up over his head, cracked his neck and sighed. “This is my town, my jurisdiction. Without my help, you aren’t going to get anywhere.” The two men glared at each other. Without moving, Davidson gestured to Sam and Xander. “And you’ve brought two civilians along on a murder case. I’m out of patience, Detective. Who the hell is this?”
Xander squared his shoulders. “Sergeant Alexander Whitfield, U.S. Army, retired. Let’s just say I’m here in a consultative position.”
Davidson took a deep breath and blew it out hard, clearly exasperated. Sam noticed he’d put his fingers on his Glock.
Xander cleared his throat.
Fletcher shot him a look, then put his hands up in the air. “Fine. Fine. Here’s the deal. Something hinky is going on down here. We’re taking the samples back to D.C. to be run in an independent lab. If you’ve got a problem with that, then let me hear it now.”
Davidson scratched his neck. “This is what you’re hiding behind? I’m fine with that. I want to work with you, not against you, and solve this case.
If
—and the lady says it’s so, so I’ll amend that to
since
—Savage was murdered, we have an open homicide on a case everyone here thought was cut-and-dried. I agree with you, this whole thing with Picker is not right. So you wanna give me the rest, or do you wanna keep wasting my time?”
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
They brought him inside and showed him the shrine. He rocked back on his heels “Shit. How’d we miss this?”
“I assume your people were afraid of the gas and didn’t look thoroughly,” Sam said.
Davidson rolled his eyes. “You think? It was a rhetorical question,
Doctor.
”
To hell with cooperation.
“Don’t be snarky, Detective. Your people never even bothered to remove the victim’s sweater—it doesn’t take a pathologist to see the bruises around his neck. You didn’t think it strange he was wearing a turtleneck in August?”
“Don’t get feisty with me. Savage was a strange dude. We couldn’t get within thirty feet of him for the first day. I didn’t make the call not to autopsy the guy—and I admit, in retrospect, that was a big miss for all of us. So thank you for coming down here and showing us country bumpkins what idiots we are.”
Sam was a patient woman. She really was. But she’d about had it with Detective June Davidson.
“Listen,
Detective,
I’m the one he was obsessed with. Now the man’s dead, murdered, an event he was clearly aware was coming, and prepared for. Which tells me he knew his murderer. And you knew Mr. Savage. As you said, this is
your
town. Why don’t you tell us what’s happening instead of hiding behind the country bumpkin crap?”
She heard Xander say, “Sam,” but ignored him and pressed on. “I’ve had some seriously bad things happen in my life recently, Detective, and some odd ones, as well. I’ve never seen anything this convoluted. So if you’re through being facetious, why don’t you do your job? Timothy Savage was murdered. Why don’t you find out why?”
She turned on her heel and walked toward the door. “I’m going back to D.C.”
Davidson called out to her, “Wait. Dr. Owens, wait. Please.”
She stopped, turned around and crossed her arms on her chest. She avoided Xander’s and Fletcher’s eyes, knew both of them were fighting to keep a straight face and not pummel Davidson, or her.
He continued. “I’m sorry. You’re right. This is a bizarre circumstance, and you’ve been pulled into this against your will. You did a hell of a job this morning with Savage’s body. I’ll tell you everything I know, everything Picker told me. I can’t guarantee you’ll like it, and it’s thin, but maybe it will help us get to the bottom of this. But we have to work together. I’ve just had a suicide turn into a murder and I don’t know why. Okay?”
“I thought you said Picker didn’t know anything,” Sam said.
“No, I said there was nothing in their system. Picker’s secretary claims a man who fits Savage’s description came in two weeks ago, asking for Benedict. They had a private meeting, lasted about two hours, and then Savage left. The meeting was scrubbed from the system, the log of visitors for the day doesn’t show Savage’s name. They have a camera on the front door, though, and there’s footage of him coming in. He looks calm and sane and certainly not afraid for his life.”
“Where’s Benedict’s secretary?”
“Denver. At a cousin’s wedding.”
“Convenient timing.” Sam was quiet for a moment. “Savage didn’t die from inhaling the hydrogen sulfide. He was strangled, there’s not a doubt in my mind. Do you think it’s possible he arranged for his own murder?”
Davidson said, “Maybe. Hell, anything’s possible, but there’s one problem with that theory. Who killed Rolph Benedict?”
“Someone who was trying to stop the will from being executed,” Xander said. “If any trace of Savage has been scrubbed from the law offices, if they have no record of the will being filed, and Benedict, the only lawyer who knew about it, is dead, then it simply doesn’t exist anymore, right?”
Davidson nodded. “If it wasn’t filed with the court, no, it doesn’t. Legally, at least. It was never filed in their automated system, and the notary in their office swears up and down she’s never seen anything with Savage’s name on it. I sure would have liked to see that will.”
Fletcher looked at Sam, who nodded once. He removed the papers from his waistband. “Then it’s a good thing I have a copy here.”
Chapter
21
THEY GATHERED AROUND
Timothy Savage’s tiny kitchen table to read his will.
Sam hadn’t seen the details when Benedict showed up on her doorstep, hadn’t paid enough attention. If she’d only listened, maybe Benedict wouldn’t be dead.
Then again, if she had listened, she might have made herself an easy target. Whoever killed Benedict could have lain in wait for him at his hotel, assuming he would go there first since it was so late in the day. Or, worse, tailed him all the way from Lynchburg. Had the killer followed Benedict to Sam’s house and seen him summarily booted out the door? Benedict hadn’t been inside for more than fifteen minutes; time enough to share information, but not enough for too many details. Hopefully the killer didn’t think Sam had anything to do with this intrigue. And if he did...
Best not to go down that road.
Fletcher read through the will’s introductory paragraph and revocation, then started listing the heirs. “Henry Matcliff is the primary heir. He’s been left nearly one hundred thousand dollars, but there are several more names on the list, each due to receive one thousand dollars. June, tell me if any of them sound familiar. Curtis Lott, Arthur Scarron, Rob Thurber, Anne Carter, Frederick McDonald and Adrian Zamyatin.”
Davidson frowned. “Two names are familiar. Arthur Scarron is dead, that much I know. He was an oil guy in Texas, his wife’s from Lynchburg. He was a doctor for a long time, plastic surgery or O.B. or something. From what I remember, he got bored remaking housewives and went to work for his family’s company, Scarron Oil and Gas. Ellie Scarron—that’s his wife—she moved back when he passed last year. He had a heart attack.”
“Why would Timothy Savage leave a dead man, who sounds like he was rather wealthy, a thousand dollars?”
“I don’t know. We can go talk to Ellie, though, see if she knows anything about all this. The other one, Fred McDonald, I’m gonna have to do some checking, but the name rings a bell.”
Fletcher glanced at his watch and cursed softly. “I have to get back to D.C. We’ll have to do it another time. Maybe I can come back down tomorrow.”
Sam said, “We’ll go with him, Fletch. You go handle the Stevens kidnapping. Amado will be waiting for the samples, anyway.”
“Stevens. Rachel Stevens?” Davidson asked. “I saw the AMBER Alert. She’s a cute little thing. Your case?”
“Apparently it is now,” Fletcher said.
“Good luck with it.”
“Thanks. Excuse us a minute, would you?”
“Sure. I need to get the dogs out here, anyway, start looking for the idiot in the red ball cap who keeps showing up.” Davidson stepped out onto the porch and Fletcher shut the front door behind him.
“Listen to me, both of you. Don’t trust that man with anything you think is vital to this case. He’s not telling us everything he knows.”
Sam nodded. “I agree. We’ll be careful.”
“I’m going to take the will and the letter with me.”
“Can I read it first?”
His lips seamed together. “It’s evidence.”
“It has my name on it.”
He pulled the letter from his jacket pocket. “Here you go.”
She nodded, used a flat pair of scissors from her purse to slit the lip open and extracted a piece of paper carefully. She unfolded it and read quickly, relief quickly flooding through her. “It’s the same as the one he sent to my office. A duplicate. Nothing new. I have to say, this man certainly seemed to think it was important to have backups of his wishes, didn’t he?” She folded the letter and started to put it back in the envelope, then realized there was something written on the back.
“What’s this?” The word was small, and faint, as if it had been written in pencil and erased. A word they weren’t meant to see. Sam brought the letter closer, letting the late afternoon sunlight play on the page.
“It’s a name. Lauren. And something else. I can’t make it out. It’s like he wrote it, then erased it. It’s barely an indentation.”
She held it up to the light. “I think it says ‘Look out for Lauren.’”
“Who the hell is Lauren?”
Sam met his eyes. “I have no idea.”
“Shit. I’m sorry, guys, but I gotta go.” Fletcher turned to Xander. “You’ll be back tonight?”
“Late, yes. Don’t worry, man. I’ve got her.”
“I’ll run the name, see if anything pops. Keep in touch.” Fletcher nodded once, then went out the front door. Sam heard some low words. His car engine turned over and he drove away, the gravel crunching under his tires. Thor barked once in farewell, and the forest grew quiet.
Davidson was waiting for them on the porch.
“Ready? You want to ride with me?”
Xander shook his head. “We’ll follow you.”
“Suit yourself. It’s about a thirty-minute ride. We’re heading toward the city, then south a piece. Stay close so I don’t lose you.”
He got behind the wheel, and before he put on his sunglasses, Sam saw him stare angrily toward the hills.
Whoever was nosing around the case, she had the distinct impression Davidson knew exactly where to find him.
Chapter
22
THE ROAD OUT
of Lynchburg followed a path the locals called Doo-Doo Highway, an odiferous few minutes past the waste treatment plant. The temperature had risen, waves of heat dancing up from the asphalt, and the miasma bled in through the Jeep’s doors. Thor whined once, and Sam simply took a huge gasp of breath and plugged her nose.
Xander started to laugh. “You look rather miserable.”
“And why aren’t you?”
“I am, but I’ve smelled worse.”
“I have, too. No reason to be heroic about it.”
They topped the hill. “It’s safe now. You can breathe.”
She dragged in a lungful of air. It was sticky and hot, but it didn’t stink. “Not sure I’m in love with central Virginia in the summer.”
“It’s better down by the river. There’s a breeze.”
Davidson flashed his brake lights twice to get their attention, then turned off the road into an unmarked drive. He started a series of switchback turns that led up the side of a mountain.
“Where is this guy going?” Xander asked.
“Well, if the Scarrons are as rich as he says, they’ll have put the house on easily defensible land. Right?”
“Never start a land war in Asia, or Lynchburg?” he asked with a wry smile.
“Something like that. I’m assuming we’re dealing with seriously old money. Scarron Oil’s been around awhile.”
“It’s his wife’s place, though. Her family might not be rich.”
“If it’s the person I’m thinking about, her maiden name is Dawson, and she’s richer than dirt,” Sam said.
“You know her?”
“Know of her. There was a
Town & Country
profile on her a while back. She’s younger than her husband by about two decades. Trophy wife.”
“Are you going to mention this to Davidson?”
“What, that I read an article on her years ago? It’s hardly worth mentioning. She’s a designer, interiors and textiles. Has her own line of fabrics. They’re a bit like Brunschwig & Fils. Too busy and bright for me, you know how simple I like things. So family money, husband’s money and her own very successful business. Yes, Ellie Dawson Scarron is filthy rich. I’d be watching out for a moat.”
That got another laugh out of him, and she relaxed against the seat, let the breeze move her hair off her face. Thor put his head on her shoulder and she stroked his ears. They could be out for a Sunday drive instead of barreling headlong into a murder investigation.
* * *
Ellie Scarron did not live in a castle with a moat. But the place was indecently large, ornate, a magnificent modern straight out of the school of Frank Lloyd Wright. The house was a series of rectangular boxes nestled into the side of the mountain with lots of glass, and a massive double front door that looked as though it was made from the trunk of a redwood.
Xander pulled the Jeep into the curved drive and shifted into neutral. “Funny. The old money’s in the modern palace and the funeral home is in Tara.”
Davidson waved for them to join him. Sam didn’t move, just stared at the house. After a moment, she put her hand on the door handle. “Come on. Let’s get this over with and get back to D.C.”
Xander immediately went on alert. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. This place doesn’t feel right.”
She didn’t want to tell him she smelled blood, and fear, and more. Evil. Something wrong, and wicked. It was ridiculous. She was just being jumpy. They were off the beaten path with a cop neither of them trusted, and she was missing Fletcher. Xander wasn’t carrying, not on his person, at least that she could see. His concealed carry permit didn’t extend to Virginia, but she knew he had weapons in the Jeep. He’d never go anywhere without them.
She glanced over at him. He was watching her, tensed, hands curving around an invisible M-4.
She smiled. “It’s okay. I’m being spooky. Let’s go.”
He was darkly silent, but gestured for her to go ahead of him. They joined Davidson on the glazed cement, and together the three of them climbed the fifteen steps to the doors.
Sam cast a discreet glance behind them, just in case someone, or something, was there. She saw nothing but the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains, hazy and mysterious, butted up against the green farm fields. The effect was beautiful, a study in contrasts: the ephemeral mountains against the tangible land. She imagined the sunsets up here must be spectacular.
Davidson rang a bell, and waited. Nothing. He jabbed the button again, and they heard the singsong bells, not a traditional ding-dong, but a deeper sound, like the gong of a church bell. Hell, it probably was. Sam hadn’t seen a bell tower when they drove up, but these people probably had their very own Quasimodo in the backyard, swinging from a rope.
Davidson was knocking on the door now, loudly, and the bangs from the bold brass lion-faced knocker echoed through the house. He shielded his eyes and looked in through the thin strip of decorative glass running the length of the ten-foot door. There was a matching one on the left, and Xander leaned in to do the same.
Davidson stood back. “This is strange. I called her on my way over to let her know we were coming to talk to her. She sounded upbeat, offered to make us some lemonade. I can see through to the garage behind the house. Her car’s parked out there. She’s here, or she was ten minutes ago.”
Sam didn’t hesitate. “Exigent circumstances. We have to go in.”
“I can’t break into her house.”
“You can, and you will. Something is terribly wrong, and you know it as well as I do.”
“Let me just call her again. Hang on.” He pulled out his cell phone.
Sam could hear the phone ring inside the house. Once, twice, three times.
Davidson frowned and hung up. “Let me get on the horn, get some more folks out here.”
“While you’re wasting time, I’m going in.”
Davidson put a meaty hand on her shoulder. “I can’t let you do that, Dr. Owens.”
“Then charge me with breaking and entering.”
She ignored his curse and put her hand on the oversize doorknob. It twisted easily in her fingers. “See, it’s unlocked.” She turned the knob and the door clicked open. It swung in silently. The house was quiet, too quiet.
“Mrs. Scarron? Are you home?”
Nothing.
Davidson was clearly struggling with his conscience. Sam rolled her eyes and entered the house, Xander on her heels.
She hadn’t been imagining it. The meaty scent of copper hung in the air like a fog.
Blood.