A Samantha Owens Novel

Chapter

15

SAM RAN TO the door and carefully ducked her head outside, but all she saw was an expanse of green lawn and a curving asphalt drive. Whoever had just been in the autopsy suite was gone.

Fast as a greyhound was an understatement.

She used a tissue from her pocket to relock the door, careful not to wipe away any possible fingerprints, then hurried back to Regina, who was collecting herself up off the floor. Her eyes weren’t totally focused on Sam.

“Are you okay?”

“I think I hit my head. Sorry. Did he get away?”

“He’s gone. Let me see.” Sam expertly ran her hands through Regina’s hair, feeling for the lump. She found it in the front, near her temple. She gave the girl a quick neurological exam, but she was focusing better.

“You’re going to have a headache, and you’ve got a little concussion. You might even sport a black eye tomorrow. Keep a close watch on yourself for the rest of the day. If your headache gets worse, go to the hospital immediately, okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just went down awkwardly. Hit my head on the edge of the cooler, of all things.”

“We’d best check the body. Whoever that was wanted something from Savage.”

They got Regina back to standing and entered the autopsy suite. The body was undisturbed.

Sam looked around the room but saw nothing out of place. “Regina, before he ran out of here, did you hear crying?”

“I thought I did. That is so weird. I’ve seen some odd things, but we’ve never had a break-in like this. Nothing taken, nothing disturbed. No harm, no foul. Oh, shoot. I better go check on Roy. He was supposed to be working on Mrs. Edmunds this afternoon.”

Sam collected the cooler, which had been knocked over when Regina fell on it, and checked inside. Everything was still in its place. Regina led them down the opposite hallway to the embalming room.

Roy was inside, earbuds in, studiously brushing a dead woman’s long silver hair. He didn’t hear them come in. Regina smiled, then signaled to Sam to back away.

Once in the hallway, she said, “If he’d been disturbed, he wouldn’t be so calm. He’s a nervous sort, my brother. Scared of his own shadow. But so good at his job. You need someone caring at this stage, and he’s a love. Come on. Let’s get back upstairs.” The girl’s natural exuberance showed itself. “I’m sure you want to call your cop friend, let him know we had a visitor.”

Sam called Fletch’s phone, but he didn’t answer. Moments later, they heard the doorbell ring.

“Ah, there they are,” Sam said.

They went to the foyer and Regina unlocked the front door. The men came in, both breathing heavily and sweating.

Regina took Davidson to the autopsy suite to show him what happened, leaving Sam and Fletcher alone. She handed him a bottle of water from her bag. He gulped greedily while she explained what had transpired, and Fletcher’s brows drew closer together.

“What happened earlier?” Sam asked.

“June caught a flash of the baseball cap, called out for him to stop, but he took off at a sprint. We got after him, but he ducked into the woods and disappeared. Poof, gone. He must have circled back and come in through the garage doors. Nothing’s missing?”

Sam shook her head. “Not that we can see. Fletch, he was standing over the body, and it sounded like he was crying. Do you think this could be the son, Henry Matcliff? The glimpse I had, he looked young.”

“Maybe. Xander checked in—he’s going into the woods to see if he can spot the man for us. Keep that under your hat for now.” His voice dropped, and she had to lean forward to hear him. “I don’t trust Davidson, not yet. I don’t think he’s told us everything about Savage. Something odd’s going on here.”

“No kidding.”

Before they could analyze things further, Davidson returned with Regina.

“We better get over to the law firm. I’ll send an officer out here to keep an eye on things until we get Savage’s wishes cleared up. Regina will keep watch, won’t you, honey?”

Regina rolled her eyes at the endearment, clearly offended, but nodded. She pointedly ignored Davidson, but shook Sam’s hand, and Fletcher’s. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Owens. I’ll see you around. You need anything, just call.”

She waited for them to leave, and Sam clearly heard the bolt thrown on the front door. Good. At least someone wasn’t going to take any chances.

* * *

The law offices of Benedict, Picker, Green and Thompson were on Rivermont Avenue, only a ten-minute drive from Hoyle’s. They were in a redbrick two-story Victorian dollhouse, complete with white trim and turrets, which, they soon found out, housed the firm’s library of law books.

They were met in the reception area by an older gentleman with white hair and a rotund stomach. He wore a gray summer-weight wool suit, his tie a florid green slash across his belly.

“Good, you’re here at last.” He turned to Sam and Fletcher. “I’m McKendry Picker. You can call me Mac. We’re all just sick about Rolph. What more can you tell us about his death? I need to let his wife know the details, and his kids, they’re flying in from around the country to be with their mother, and this is all just so heartbreaking. We knew he wasn’t going to last long with the disease and all, but to die like this, murdered, so far away from home, it’s just—” He burst into tears.

Sam’s first instinct was to comfort him, but Fletcher cleared his throat and imperceptibly shook his head at her, so she stood her ground.

Davidson was the one who laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Mac, shh, it’s okay, man. I know how hard this is for everyone. Where are Tony and Stacey?”

Picker got himself together, sniffling and wiping his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “They’re in Las Vegas. A deposition for a client. They’ll fly back as soon as they’re finished, should be in this evening.” He turned to Sam and Fletcher and cleared his throat, the tears still sparkling on his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry to lose control like that. Saying it aloud made it so real. Rolph and I have been friends for forty years. I’m going to miss him dreadfully.”

Fletch bowed his head and said softly, “We understand, sir. Is there someplace we can sit and chat for a bit?”

“Of course. We have pastries and coffee waiting in the conference room. Follow me, please.”

Sam noticed the man’s stride was slightly off, as if he were wearing a knee brace, or had twisted his ankle. When they got into the conference room, which was gorgeous—dark wood and gleaming floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking an extravagant all-white flower garden—Sam asked him about it as they settled around the table.

“Korea, I’m afraid. Lost the leg. I was shipped over toward the end, when I was only seventeen, though Uncle Sam didn’t know that. I was green as a sapling, and stepped on a mine the first day I was there. Blew it right off. I was lucky, they saved my knee, and prosthetics have come so far since I first began wearing them. And I’m blessed with excellent insurance.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam said. “You seem to manage beautifully.”

“Years of practice. And don’t be sorry. Government paid for everything, from my leg through to my schooling. I wouldn’t have gotten into law without the push. Everything happens for a reason, Dr. Owens. Even losing a leg in a stupid accident, or the untimely death of a friend. Now please, tell me what’s happening. Why was my best friend murdered?”

Chapter

16

FLETCHER LET JUNE Davidson do the talking, and watched the array of emotions parade across Mac Picker’s face as he heard the story.

“Let me get this straight. Savage hired Rolph to put together a will, and named Dr. Owens here executor? That’s very odd, very odd indeed. When you called and told me the details, I checked our database. We don’t have a record of Savage being a client. There’s nothing to indicate he and Rolph ever even met.”

“Did Benedict have a history of doing pro bono work?” Fletcher asked.

“Well, sure. We all do our part to help out indigents, and other cases where it would be to our benefit to be involved for a nominal fee. And there’s always the chance Rolph was helping out on his own time, not on behalf of the firm. But I’m sorry, there’s nothing here, nothing at all.”

“Did Mr. Benedict have a paralegal? Someone who may have helped him draft the will?” Davidson asked.

“We do have paralegals, but they’re absolutely one hundred percent bound by the law and our internal policies to put everything into the system as it comes in. It’s procedure. We may look like a small Southern operation, but we’ve got a state-of-the-art legal electronic filing system. We’ve been electronic for about five years now, and everything, everything, goes through our database directly into the judiciary. It’s mandatory.

“Now the only outsiders are some interns who come in a few times a week, students from around town who are taking prelaw and want to experience the real deal. But they don’t have access to the databases. The interns are more for show, if you’ll forgive the admission. It makes them feel like they’re learning, and the school gives them class credit for their time spent here. The firm gets the cachet of having the top students in the area fight to work for us. But we don’t let them actually do anything.”

Fletcher picked up an iced cinnamon roll, took a casual bite. He used the remains to point at Picker. “So you’re saying Benedict must have done his work for Savage off-book?”

Picker’s face reddened. “I suppose that’s exactly what I’m saying, though the way you put it, it sounds quite sordid.”

Davidson stepped in, hands up. “Mac, relax. We believe you. But we’re gonna need Rolph’s computer from his office, and his date book. I know you understand.”

Picker’s shoulders squared, and his chin rose. “And you certainly understand I’ll need to see your warrant. That computer contains highly confidential material, and we can’t just allow it to parade out of here. I’ve looked on it myself, and there’s no sign of any files under the name Savage.”

“Come on. You’re gonna make me go to Judge Hessian? You really want him breathing down your neck? My God, Mac, that can be construed as tampering with evidence, and you know it.”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, I need that warrant first. And, June, don’t threaten me. It’s not polite. Your father wouldn’t appreciate it, and I don’t, either.”

Fletcher was enjoying this exchange. Despite his misgivings, he thought Davidson was probably all right, once you got past the big-town-cop, small-town-cop posturing, but he wasn’t above taking pleasure in seeing someone get a spanking. He glanced over at Sam to see if she was amused, too, and saw she wasn’t paying attention anymore, but was staring at her phone screen. While Davidson and Picker went at each other, he nudged her knee and raised an eyebrow. She handed him the phone.

The text was from Xander.

At Savage’s place. You and Fletch need to get out here. Now. No locals.

Sam took the phone back, and Fletcher stood.

“Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt this fascinating discourse, but while you hash this out, Dr. Owens and I should really get the samples from Savage’s autopsy to the lab. Detective Davidson, would you mind calling me when you’re done here? We can meet up after you’ve served the warrant.”

Both men gaped at him, but Davidson recovered quickly. “Sure. No problem. Might take an hour or so. We’ll have to pull Judge Hessian off the links. He has a standing tee time once court lets out for the day. You’ll be on your cell?”

“I will.”

“Lab’s down the street, toward the river. Just go back the way we came in. You can’t miss it. I’ll see you there once we get things settled. Mac here will do the right thing as soon as Old Hessian gets wind of this. Won’t you, Mac?”

Picker glared at the younger man and said nothing.

Fletcher shook hands with Picker, and he and Sam left the room. He heard Davidson saying, “Now, listen, you old fool, you know we have every right to see Rolph’s computer.” His voice drifted off, and Fletcher waited until they were outside to say, “Bunch of BS going on in there. Thanks for getting us out. They’re going to argue for hours, and I don’t feel like waiting around.”

“Picker’s hiding something,” Sam said.

“I know. Maybe he’ll be more open with Davidson once we’re out of here. You have an address for Savage?”

“Yeah. We need to head back north on Highway 29, then take the first exit east toward Farmville. His cabin is just outside the city limits.”

“You’re a regular cartographer.”

That made her laugh, and he was glad, because the worried dent left her forehead. “Maps are my secret love. No, Xander sent another text with the instructions. He says to watch for a large oak tree with a split trunk. That’s the entrance to the drive. I hope he’s okay.”

“He’s fine. He’d have sent an SOS if he was in danger. Sounds to me like he found something interesting and didn’t want to share it with Davidson until we had a chance to look it over.”

Sam nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. We have to get these samples to D.C. as soon as we can. They’ll be okay in the cooler for twelve hours or so—they’re packed well—but that’s it. I don’t trust anyone down here to handle them properly. I took a DNA swab from Savage’s neck and ear. I’m hoping we’ll have something belonging to the killer. He held him down, a knee in his stomach, and strangled him face-to-face. It takes a lot of hate to watch someone die like that. I’m hoping he was talking while he did it, and some saliva got onto Savage’s face.”

“You’re good at this.”

“Too much experience.”

He drove in silence for a few minutes, thinking to himself, That’s why Savage wanted you. He knew you’d be able to suss things out. Then Sam said, “There, that’s the road we need.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Turn.”

The road looked more like a donkey track, thin ruts in the dirt wending into a deep, dark forest, and Fletcher’s Caprice didn’t have the best clearance for off-roading, but he listened, going cautiously so he didn’t bottom out.

“Whitfield has his Jeep, I take it?”

“I’m sure he does. He doesn’t like to drive my BMW. Makes him feel icky, he says.” She laughed. “His parents really did a number on him when it comes to anything that could be construed as capitalistic.”

“BMWs are only for capitalists, I take it?”

“Yep. The road to his cabin isn’t much better than this, and washes out in heavy rains, so he’s got the Jeep jacked up a bit. I’m sure it was no problem. Come on, Grandma, put your foot in it. It evens out in a hundred feet.”

“Grandma my ass,” he muttered, but she was right, the road did get better once they got away from the highway. He supposed Savage kept it a mess to discourage visitors. It was effective.

Another mile into the woods, Savage’s cabin appeared. It wasn’t much to speak of. Fletcher had seen hunting shacks with more space, but he supposed only one person didn’t need too much room. If the kid was grown and gone, and it was only Savage, it would be enough.

“Where’s Xander’s Jeep?” Sam asked.

Fletcher didn’t see it, but he assumed Whitfield was smart enough to have it out of the way. He was right; as he pulled the Caprice to a stop, Whitfield appeared next to them, almost as if he’d walked right out of a tree.

“God, I hate it when he does that.”

“Me, too,” Sam said. “It’s like he’s part of the forest. He does it up on the mountain all the time. He and Thor can disappear in plain sight. It’s spooky.”

She got out of the car and went to him, and gave him a quick kiss. Nothing overt, nothing sloppy, only a peck, and even after everything Fletcher had said on the way to Lynchburg, he still felt a twist in his gut when he saw the way she looked at him.

Let it go, man. She ain’t ever gonna be yours.

Better friends than nothing, that was for sure. He’d probably lose her, anyway, get himself into his familiar routine, once the novelty wore off.

Keep telling yourself that, Fletch. You might even start to believe it.

He stepped from the car and his cell rang. He looked down to see Hart was calling. “Hold on a sec. Gotta take this.”

Hart’s voice was tight and anxious. “Where the hell are you, hoss? I went by your place to bring you a study lunch and it was buttoned up tight.”

“South. Lynchburg. I’m helping Sam out on a case. Why, what’s up?”

“We have a missing kid. Ten-year-old girl named Rachel Stevens. Disappeared from Connecticut Avenue, near the zoo. Parents reported her missing an hour ago, and the cops who came to take the report found a note. Probable kidnapping. AMBER Alert just went up. We need you back here, right now.”

“Who snatched her?”

“No idea. Parents are married. It doesn’t look custodial. Armstrong’s liaising with the FBI. It’s task force city, all hands on deck.”

“Shit.”

“As in it’s hitting the fan, yes. So get your sweet booty back to D.C., will ya?”

Fletch looked at his watch. It was 2:00 p.m. “I’ll be back by 7:00. Tell Armstrong.”

“This is going to be over by 5:00. Hurry up.”

He hung up and Fletcher stowed his phone.

Sam had been listening. “What’s wrong?”

“A little girl named Rachel Stevens has gone missing. I gotta get back to D.C.”

Sam frowned. “That’s awful. Well, I know all the players now, and the hard part’s over. You can go back up. Xander can keep an eye on me. You can take the samples to Amado, and he can begin the tests. It gives us half a day’s head start. And we’ll come back up tonight.”

Leaving Sam in the lion’s den with all the lies flying around went against his better judgment, but he didn’t see that he had a choice. She was right, the bulk of the work had been done. Now it was up to the evidence to lead them to an answer.

Whitfield was studying him with those dark, unreadable eyes. “You’re cool with this?”

He nodded. “No worries, man. I can take care of her. But you’re going to want to see this before you go.”

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