“The Rabbi might have been the real target,” Pratt continued. “Do you believe someone might have thought it was the Rabbi exiting the building and confused your husband for him as he was shot?”
“Absolutely not,” she answered concretely. “My husband has a full head of hair on his head and if you’ve seen the Rabbi, he’s mostly bald, with hair only on the sides. There’s no way anyone could have confused the two.”
“Then your husband must have been the target. Now, I need to find out why.”
This statement caused bumps to appear on her arms again, as she realized that someone might be trying to murder her Jackie.
“Was there anything about the day of the shooting that was unusual? Perhaps where he parked his car, or something he told you about one of his clients or coworkers?”
Jack’s voice called down from upstairs, “Brenda who are you talking to?”
“I’m speaking to Detective John Pratt, Dear.”
“Johnny, please,” said Pratt.
“Sorry, Detective.” Brenda yelled back upstairs, “I’m being interviewed by Detective Johnny Pratt about your shooting.”
“Hold on, I’ll be right down,” Jack replied.
“Be careful on the steps, Darling,” she said.
“Don’t worry, I’m okay. I’ve got my crutches and I’ll come down slowly.” Johnny heard the stomping of the crutches followed by soft footfalls on the steps. Pratt stood up from his chair and offered it to Jack, who declined. “No thank you, I’ll just sit over here on my favorite easy chair facing you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, please relax and let me continue with your wife. I may have some additional questions for you later. Feel free to jump in at any time you want to add or correct anything,” the detective told him.
“So, Mrs. Green, let me repeat the question I asked you before your husband came downstairs. Was there anything about the day he was shot that was unusual? Something in the date perhaps, where he or you parked the car, maybe something he told you, that happened with one of his clients at work?”
Brenda was first to answer, “I don’t remember a thing in answer to any of your questions, Detective.”
“There was one thing,” Green added. “I remember one of our firm’s clients whose taxes I had prepared. It was for the Anderson-Watermayne Corporation. Mr. Alan Watermayne, the CEO, came into the office terribly upset and told my boss that my accounting certification of his books cost his firm over a quarter of a million dollars in taxes for last year. Watermayne’s expectation was that his taxes would not reach six figures, but he forgot to include his firm’s additional income from its foreign investments and offshore accounts. The guy’s a real asshole. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had somebody take a couple of shots at me out of malice.”
Pratt was pleased to hear of a possible lead. “I’ll follow up with Mr. Watermayne. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Green.” Leaving their home, he wished Mr. Green a quick recovery.
After Johnny got in his car, he radioed the marshal. “Hey, Marshal, I’m checking with a Mr. Alan Watermayne at the Anderson-Watermayne Corporation. He was identified by Jack Green as a possible disgruntled client. Tomorrow, I plan to interview Andre the custodian who works at the synagogue. He was the one who saved Mr. Green with immediate trauma first aid ”
“Ten-four,” the marshal replied, but then added, referring to Andre, “Why are you going to that beaner’s place?”
That was enough to trigger Pratt into running his mic up and down on his inner shirt zipper to make it sound like static interference. It was either that or drive over to the marshal’s office and deck him for his obnoxiously stupid bigotry. He was used to it by now and started faking a breakup in service: “Marsh ... you ... ar ... brea ... up ... I ... can ... uner ... sta ... u ... tok ... later.”
Settling himself, Pratt called the Anderson-Watermayne Corporation.
“Hello, Anderson-Watermayne, this is Lucinda. How may I help you?” chirped the receptionist.
“This is Detective Johnny Pratt, Sedona Police Department, for Mr. Alan Watermayne.”
“Please hold,” she told him. After a few minutes of holding, he received a radio call from the station.
“Hey Pratt, I just got a phone call from a Lucinda at Anderson-Watermayne asking if you are a detective here. I confirmed that you are.”
“Thanks, Bill,” Pratt said. Lucinda immediately got back online and said, “I can connect you now.”
“Detective Pratt, this is Alan Watermayne, I understand you need to speak with me.”
“Yes, I do. Mr. Watermayne. Can you tell me where you were between February eleventh to the thirteenth this year?” he asked.
Watermayne sounded relieved by the question, “Yes, I can and very easily. I was in London from February sixth through the eighteenth.”
“Can you document your visit with either your passport, flight tickets or London hotel receipts?” Pratt inquired gingerly.
“I have all three if you care to stop by my office tomorrow, I’ll be glad to bring them all from home,” replied Watermayne with an accomplished air.
The next day, Pratt walked into Watermayne’s lobby. After announcing himself to the receptionist she said, “Hold on a minute, I have a package for you. Mr. Watermayne was expecting you.” She handed Pratt an envelope. After opening it he found the three items he had asked for and decided that was enough evidence to rule out Watermayne as a suspect.
Twelve
After receiving the evidence of Watermayne’s alibi Detective Pratt stopped by Andre’s as he had told the marshal he would. Andre’s house was on the other side of town in a predominantly lower income HUD housing neighborhood with a diverse mix of poor Whites, Mexican Americans, Black families and a few Asians.
Andre was a five-foot-ten Hispanic born in the U.S. As Pratt approached his home, he noticed neighbors of Andre’s sitting on the stoops in front of their homes staring at him driving by. Obviously, the word got out that Andre saved a guy who got shot and now the street was on the watch for a possible gunman who may want to shoot Andre, believing that he
