“W. G. Davis is a retired investment banker living in Banner Elk. F. M. Payne is a philosophy professor at Wake Forest. Warren's an attorney in Fayetteville. We found the counselor on his way to the airport, had to spoil his little getaway to Antigua.”
“Do they admit to knowing one another?”
“Everyone tells the same story. H&F is strictly business, they never met. Never set foot on the property.”
“What about prints inside the house?”
“The recovery team lifted zillions. We're running them but it will take time.”
“Any police records?”
“Payne, the professor, was busted for pot in seventy-four. Otherwise, nothing came up. But we're checking every cell these guys have ever shed. If one of them peed on a tree at Woodstock, we'll get a sample. These assholes are dirty as hell, and they're going down for murder.”
Larke Tyrell appeared in the doorway. Deep lines creased his forehead. McMahon greeted him, went in search of additional seating. Tyrell spoke to me.
“I'm glad you're here.”
I said nothing.
McMahon returned with a folding metal chair. Tyrell sat, his spine so erect it made no contact with the backrest.
“What can I do for you, Doc?” McMahon.
Tyrell removed a handkerchief, wiped his forehead, then refolded the linen in a perfect square.
“I have information that is highly sensitive.”
The Andy Griffith eyes shifted from face to face, but he did not say the obvious.
“I'm sure you are all aware that Parker Davenport died of a gunshot wound yesterday. The wound appears to be self-inflicted, but there are disturbing elements, including an extremely high level of trifluoperazine in his blood.”
We all looked blank.
“The common name is Stelazine. The drug is used in the treatment of psychotic anxiety and agitated depressions. Davenport had no prescription for Stelazine, and his doctor knows of no reason he would be taking it.”
“A man in his position wouldn't have trouble getting what he wanted.” McMahon.
“That's true, sir.”
Tyrell cleared his throat.
“Minute traces of trifluoperazine were also detected in the body of Primrose Hobbs, but immersion and decomposition had complicated the picture, so a definitive finding was not possible.”
“Does Sheriff Crowe know this?” I asked.
“She knows about Hobbs. I'll tell her about Davenport when I leave here.”
“Stelazine wasn't found among Hobbs's belongings.”
“Nor did she have a prescription.”
My stomach tightened. I had never seen Primrose take so much as an aspirin.
“Equally disturbing are phone calls made by Davenport on the evening of his death,” Larke went on.
Tyrell handed McMahon a list.
“You may recognize some of the numbers.”
McMahon scanned the printout, then looked up.
“Sonofabitch. The lieutenant governor phoned the H&F officers just hours before blowing his brains out?”
“What?” I blurted.
“Or had them blown out.” Ryan.
McMahon passed me the list. Six numbers, five names. W. G. Davis, F. M. Payne, F. L. Warren, C. A. Birkby, P. H. Rollins.
“What was the sixth call?”
“The number traces to a rented cabin in Cherokee. Sheriff Crowe is checking it out.”
“Tempe, show Dr. Tyrell what you just showed me.”
McMahon reached for his phone.
“It's time to run these bastards to ground.”
Larke wanted to examine the marks firsthand, so we went straight to the morgue. Though I'd had nothing since coffee at seven, and it was after one, I had no appetite. I kept seeing Primrose, wondering what she'd discovered. What threat she'd posed. And a new question: Was her murder linked to the death of the lieutenant governor?
Larke and I spent an hour going over the bones, the ME looking and listening closely, now and then asking a question. We'd just finished when my cell phone rang.
