“Yeah.” He wrapped his arms around her warm softness. She wasn’t wearing a gown. Quietly, he described what Whitley had done to himself and she listened without interrupting. “He was one of my first hires.”
“Oh, Dwight. I’m so sorry, darling.”
Even with everything else, that gave him pause. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that.”
“Is it? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
She touched his face in a gentle caress, and for a little space of time, he let himself forget what he had seen that night.
WEDNESDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 15
Before the sun edged over the treetops, Dwight was already dressed, and he was on his second cup of coffee by the time Deborah stumbled out. No lipstick, tangled hair, barefooted, and wearing one of his sweatshirts. She looked beautiful to him.
“You’re going in this early?” she asked.
“Over to Chapel Hill.” He filled a second mug and handed it to her. “Whitley’s autopsy.”
“But why? I thought you said it was suicide.”
“It probably is. But I still want to be there. He was one of mine so I want to do it by the book.”
“Okay. But don’t forget Miss Sallie Anderson’s dinner for us tonight.”
She saw the look on his face and immediately said, “It’s all right. You can skip it. I’ll call and tell her you have to work. It’s for some of her and Aunt Zell’s neighbors that have known me since I was a kid. I’ll probably be the only one there under sixty-five.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks. And let’s plan on my place tonight, okay? I’d like to be close to the office the next couple of days.”
“Fine.” She gestured to the files that Nolan Capps and Kayra Stewart had left stacked at the end of the table. “What about those? Did the kids finish with them?”
Dwight shrugged. “Probably, but I left first, so I don’t know. I think they were going to stay the night with Bessie again, so you could call over and ask.” He holstered his gun, grabbed his jacket, and opened the door. “See you tonight.”
“Well, at least it’s warmer today,” said Deputy Silas Lee Jones as they returned to the scene of Tracy Johnson’s death and unloaded the metal detectors. Denning had borrowed extras from neighboring jurisdictions so that the four officers could cover more ground faster.
Using cans of fluorescent spray paint, Tub Greene and Mike Castleman gridded off a section of the road bank along the southern and western perimeters of the area they’d searched the day before. In summer, this raised bank would be bright with golden daylilies or red poppies. Here in December, all the roots were dormant.
Denning had left his assistant processing the prints they’d lifted from Whitley’s car and he was anxious to get back to Dobbs to finish the report on their colleague’s suicide. They didn’t have conclusive DNA proof yet, but his blood type matched the fetus Tracy Johnson had been carrying and it was beginning to look more and more like he’d shot her. Would’ve been nice to have the slug to prove it conclusively, but, “We don’t find anything by lunchtime, we might as well hang it up,” he said.
At the office, Mayleen Richards found Jack Jamison doggedly plowing through the bank records they’d brought from Johnson’s house.
She hung her jacket on the back of her chair. “Finding anything?”
“She had the premium cable package,” he said enviously. “HBO and all the rest.”
“I don’t suppose she wrote any checks to Don?”
“Nope.” He ran his finger down her check register again. “Wonder what would’ve happened if he hadn’t shot her? Reckon she’d’ve kept the baby?”
“Probably. Her doctor seemed to think so.” Richards dipped into the box and pulled out utility bills neatly clipped together. Water, electricity, heating oil. “I’d hate for anybody to have to go through my bills. I just throw everything into a drawer and sort it all at the end of the year. By the way, how’d it go out at the prison farm? That guy that made the death threat?”
“Like we thought. Swore he was just mouthing off in the heat of the moment. Seemed surprised we even remembered.” He paused to reach over and clear his computer screen. “The phone company said they’d forward a list of all her cell phone calls for this past month. Oh good. Here it is.”
He followed the links the phone company had sent and soon his screen was filled with the minutes the slain ADA had used, from the end of the last bill until about a half-hour before she was shot. He printed it out and began by calling the last number.
Beneath the open Christmas cards and other papers in the box, Richards found three long yellow legal pads held together by a thick rubber band. They hadn’t paid much attention because they looked new and unused. Indeed, the top two were, but the third . . . ? The first five or six pages were covered in writing that she now recognized as Tracy Johnson’s.
“Hey, here’s some notes she made,” Richards told Jamison. “Wonder if it’s for that drug case the DA’s worried about.”
There were Latino names and dates from back in the summer. Then, two pages over, at the bottom of a fresh page, “12 pkts (1gm ea) + $120K > 10 & $80K. $40K????” The four question marks had been gone over several times till they were thick and black. In block letters were “DANNO R. a.k.a. DANIEL RUIZ” and the words “time served?” Beneath, Johnson had scribbled, “Talk to Don.”
“What do you think?” she asked Jamison as he paused between calls.
“He looked at it a long moment, then said, “Same thing you’re thinking. That he was sticking money from the drug stops into his own pocket and one of the perps has asked for a deal to help prove it. You need to show this to the major. This could be Don’s real motive.”
“Well, hot damn!” Deputy Jones yelled above the roar of morning traffic. “Looky what I just found!”
