A retired FBI agent, former Navy SEAL, and one of the more sought-after private investigators in Pensacola, Harden could dig up dirt on anybody. We hadn’t been on the same side of every issue, election, or referendum. You never quite knew who Harden was working for on any given day. Most of the information he shared was accurate, but you still needed to verify his tips.
Harden had saved my ass a few times, and I had helped him disrupt the plans of a few mutual enemies. Though he denied it, I thought he had been paid a few times to follow and report on me. Trust was not part of our relationship, but it always paid to listen to Jim Harden.
“You on top of Sue Hines’ death?” I asked as we sat down out of earshot of Bree and her customers.
Harden nodded, “I listened to dispatch route the officers and EMS to the home and was on the scene when they hauled the body off. I thought you might want someone there, and I knew your staff probably hadn’t gotten out of bed yet.”
“What did you learn?”
“It was most likely a drug overdose,” Harden said. I always liked his directness, but this time I would have appreciated a warning.
“Her husband called 9-1-1 after finding her on the floor of the bathroom off the master bedroom this morning at 7:25 a.m.,” said Harden leaning over a notepad next to his coffee cup to read the words written in tight, perfect cursive. “She was putting on her makeup and getting dressed for the trial.”
Bo must have just gotten home from his television interview.
“She died before the ambulance arrived.”
“Damn,” I said. “Was there a note?”
“The cops didn’t find one,” Harden said, still reviewing his notes. “Holmes, Mrs. Hines may have overdosed on Phenobarbital. The police found open prescription bottles in the bathroom. We will need to wait for the ME’s report.”
“Sue took the drug for her epilepsy,” I said when Harden paused to see my reaction to his news. Sue had chaired the local epilepsy board of directors and openly talked about her seizures.
I continued, “She has—had—been afflicted since eighth grade. It would be just like Sue to forget she had taken one dose and down another. Maybe it was accidental.”
Harden looked down and sipped his coffee. He didn’t believe it was an accident but didn’t care enough to argue with me. He let me hold on to that ray of hope but only for a few sips.
“The media will blame you, Holmes,” he said. “The state attorney might even ask for a delay in Hines’ trial. They are worried about finding open-minded jurors. Her death will be all over the media for the next two weeks. You forced their hand on this case. Hines pushed to get in court as quickly as possible, which has hampered the prosecutors who wanted more time to prepare for the trial. Some in the state attorney’s office would like to see it and you go away.”
I didn’t say a word, just continued drinking my coffee. I felt everything slipping away—my newspaper, my friends, and my life.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said and stared into Harden’s eyes. “Maybe Bo will change his plea to guilty.”
Harden half smiled. “You have always been a hard-ass.”
I looked back at Harden as I left a tip on the table for Bree and walked toward the front door. “You let me know if you hear anything else.”
As I turned the corner from the backroom, I ran into Jace Wittman, Sue Hines’ stepbrother. His face looked weary and his blue dress shirt was untucked and wrinkled. His hair needed to be brushed. His goatee was unkempt.
Before I could offer any condolences, Wittman hurled his vanilla latte at my head.
“You son of a bitch,” he shouted. “You killed my sister.”
I shielded my face, and most of the hot liquid scalded my arm. I smelled the vanilla and imagined my skin blistering.
Wittman doubled me over with a punch to my exposed gut. Bree screamed for him to stop. I slipped and hit my head on the corner of a table. Harden blocked Wittman’s path and pushed him as he tried to deliver a kick to my ribs. They had been cracked one time too many and wouldn’t have taken the kick well.
Even though he had twenty pounds on Harden, Wittman knew he was overmatched. He turned angrily and walked out of the cafe. Harden stayed with me. “You okay?” he asked. “We need to get that shirt off and see how much damage Wittman did. Want to call the cops?”
I shook my head imagining that I felt my brain rattle around in my skull. I struggled to catch my breath and not show any emotion. Bree, Harden, and the customers stared down at me.
“He must have come looking for you,” said Bree. “His eyes were glazed over when he walked in until he saw you. I thought he was going to kill you.”
“I have that effect on people,” I said.
She handed me a ziplock bag filled with ice for my head. When they got my shirt off, my left arm was pink, but the starched sleeve had repelled most of the coffee. There were no blisters. Funny how my writer’s imagination had gotten carried away. I also had a knot on the back of my head from the fall, but no other injuries.
Bree gave me a kiss on the forehead and a green, red, yellow, and blue tie-dyed Breaktime T-shirt to wear. Harden walked with me back to the Insider office.
It was a little after nine o’clock in the morning, and I’d already had my ass kicked and seen my chance for redemption possibly evaporate. Perfect.
3
The Insider staff would not be in the office until after ten. We had worked late into the
