“Who is this?” Dantzler asked, but the man ended the call without answering.
Dantzler punched in the caller ID, only to be informed by a mechanical voice that the number was not accessible.
He hung up the phone, stood there for several seconds, then grabbed his Pernod and orange juice and went out onto the deck. The night was warm and breezy, the sky filled with countless stars. A gold moon reflected off the lake that bumped up against his back yard. Damn near a perfect night, he thought to himself.
Dantzler sat in a lounge chair and pondered the phone call. Specifically, the questions it triggered. How did the caller know about the meeting with the Reverend, which took place less than thirty-six hours ago? What was the caller’s relationship to the Reverend? To the crime itself? Was he a family member? Could it have been Colt Rogers, the attorney? And how did he get Dantzler’s unlisted home number?
One other question had to be considered: could the call have been instigated by the Reverend as a way of increasing the odds Dantzler would get involved?
Dantzler had no answers to any of his questions except the last one. He discounted the possibility that the call was made at the Reverend’s behest. The Reverend had made it absolutely clear during the meeting that he didn’t need outside assistance. He was certain Dantzler would re-open the case.
With that one out of the way, Dantzler was left with one final thought, one that had nagged at him since leaving the prison: an ever-growing belief that the Reverend may well be an innocent man.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dantzler was in his office by six-thirty Monday morning. He had no particular reason for the early arrival, other than the need to feel like he was doing something constructive. Idleness wasn’t his cup of tea. He was like the shark that must keep swimming or die. It wasn’t lost on him that his much-longed-for leisure time had once again become a victim to his work, his need for action. So much for getting off the speedway.
Dantzler was surprised to find Eric Gamble standing by the coffee pot, holding an empty Styrofoam cup in his hand. The bags under his eyes were testament to his lack of sleep.
“I hope you don’t feel as bad as you look, Eric,” Dantzler said, plucking a cup from the stack on the table. “Because if you do, you might as well be pushing up daisies.”
“Do I really look that bad?”
“Dead man walking.”
“Man, I’m this close to finishing my novel,” Eric said, pinching his thumb and forefinger almost together. “I just can’t get the ending the way I want it.”
“Maybe you need to step away from it for a while, put some distance between you and the story. Then, at some point, attack it again. Maybe you’ll come back to it with a new and fresh perspective.”
“I tried that, already,” Eric said, shaking his head. “Didn’t work. I put it away for two days, tried to forget about it, but then I felt compelled to get back at it. It’s like a fire in my brain and it’s consuming me. I have to finish the damn thing.”
Eric poured coffee into his cup before filling Dantzler’s. “Did I tell you I finally landed an agent?”
“No, you didn’t. That’s huge, right?”
“Oh, definitely. She’s with a big-time New York agency. Loves what she’s read so far. Thinks it has definite potential.” Eric sipped at the steaming coffee. “She’s the one who recommended a different ending. Initially, I was resistant, didn’t think the ending had problems. But she convinced me. She gave me two or three possible endings. So… now here I am, struggling to come up with a different finish.”
“You’ll do it.”
“Would you read it, Jack? Take a look, see what you think? Let me know your verdict on the ending I’m going with? I mean, only if you have the time.”
“Not unless you make the lead character white, base him on me, and let Daniel Day-Lewis play him in the movie.”
“Well, you ain’t reading it, then,” Eric said, laughing. “Because the guy is as black as my ass, and no one but Denzel plays him in the movie.”
“Bumped by Denzel Washington. I can live with that. Sure, Eric, I’ll be happy to take a look at it.”
“Thanks.” Eric looked at his watch. “We have a meeting this morning?”
“Not unless Rich has one planned.”
“I haven’t seen Captain Bird in a week or so,” Eric said. “I think maybe he’s been out of town.”
“He’s been in D.C. attending a big-time conference on homeland security. But he should be back today.”
“Well, a Monday morning without a meeting is fine with me,” Eric said, dumping his cup into the wastebasket.
A few minutes after eight o’clock, Laurie Dunn and Milt Brewer walked in. Laurie, stunning as always, wore a blue pants suit, white turtleneck top, and black flats. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and if she had on any makeup, it wasn’t noticeable. Not that she needed any help. Nature had treated her extremely well. By any standard, she was a natural beauty.
She moved past Milt, went to the table, pulled back a chair, and took a seat. “Morning, guys,” she said. When no one responded, she said, “Well, aren’t we a grumpy bunch today?”
As always, Milt, a ten-cup-a-day guy, headed straight for the coffee pot. After filling his cup, he claimed his usual seat at the table, first one on the right. He spied Eric yawning.
“You know, Eric, for such a good looking dude, you look like crap. Another late night with the ladies?”
“I was writing.”
“When are you gonna finish that damn book, anyway? You’ve been working on it for, what, five years now?”
“Three.”
“You know, God created the Earth in six days. Surely…”
“Yeah, yeah, you’ve told me this before, Milt. I’ll finish it when I finish it.”
“Yogi Berra couldn’t have said it better.”
Dantzler moved to the table and sat down next to Milt. “How did trial go Friday?” Milt had been the lead detective on a murder case that finally found its way into the courtroom after two years in legal limbo. “Any glitches?”
“Piece of cake,” Milt answered. “Puckett’s attorney only asked me three questions on cross. Ask, then sat. He knows this isn’t a battle he can win.”
Milt finished off the coffee and tossed his cup into the wastebasket. “Funny thing is, everyone, including the defense attorney, has been begging Puckett to take a plea. He won’t do it. Keeps saying, ‘we’re gonna win this thing at trial, just like O.J. did.’ Who’s he kidding? Lonnie Puckett has about as much chance of winning as I have of getting a date with Ashley Judd, which, we all know, ain’t gonna happen. He may be the most stupid moron I’ve ever encountered. It’s just a damn shame all criminals aren’t that dumb.”
“That would certainly make life easier for all of us,” Dantzler said. “You put in your papers, Milt?”
“Not yet. They’re filled out, lying on the kitchen table, just waiting for me to hand in. But… I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. A coward, I guess.”
“Thirty-five years chasing bad guys. You’ve earned the right to kick back and relax.”
“Yeah, I have. And with Dan gone, it’s not the same for me. I love you guys, and you know it, but me and Dan, we just had so much history together. Vietnam, here, the cases we worked-it’s just not the same.”
Dan Matthews, Milt’s long-time partner, was murdered while working the Victor Sammael case, strangled and mutilated at the Marriott Inn. He and Milt had been more than mere partners. They were drinking buddies and close friends for almost forty years. They were like brothers, a perfect pairing of brains, tenacity, and toughness. For Milt, losing Dan was akin to losing a family member.
Milt looked away, said, “I always assumed Dan and me would call it quits together. Start together, finish
