Authors: Sharon Woods Hopkins
Killerwatt (26 page)
Marinthe checked Randolph’s vital signs, then said,
“You are doing well, Judge McCarter. You should be going home in a day or two.”
Then Marinthe took a turn sitting on the bed. “Do you know an attorney named
Albert Claymore?”
“I do. Why?”
“Apparently Mr. Claymore was paying some of the
staff phlebotomists to find clients for him.”
“Clients?” Rhetta said, as she and Randolph
exchanged puzzled glances.
“It seems when certain accident cases appeared to be
caused by drunk drivers, some of Claymore’s paid technicians mishandled the
blood tests in the emergency room. The results always showed an elevated blood
alcohol, and
voilà
, Mr. Claymore stepped in to become the drunk driver’s
lawyer.” Marinthe patted Randolph’s arm. “Like he tried with you. Luckily, your
wife observed how your test was done. That is what put me on the trail.”
Randolph shook his head. Rhetta fist pumped. “Yes!”
She circled in a small victory dance. The DUI would be dismissed.
Marinthe rose slowly and went to the doorway. “Mrs.
McCarter, perhaps you should become a detective,
non
?” Grinning, he
pulled the door closed as he left.
Randolph pulled Rhetta to him. “The answer to that
is a great big
non
,” Randolph said, imitating Marinthe’s accent. “Don’t
you ever go detecting again, hear? You nearly got yourself killed.”
On Saturday, a week after Randolph was discharged
from the hospital, an off-duty Sergeant Meade had shown up at the McCarter’s
home to hand deliver Rhetta’s driver’s license and car registration. She
examined her license front and back.
“Is something wrong with it?” Meade asked.
“I’m looking for my invitation to court,” Rhetta
answered, turning it over again.
“The Cape county prosecutor wasn’t too happy, but I
talked him out of issuing you a ticket for running off from an officer. In
fact, it took a great deal of persuading to convince the Scott County
prosecutor not to file any charges either. I convinced him you and Mr. Zelinski
were acting in self-defense.”
“Hey, they were shooting at us first,” Rhetta
insisted.
Randolph cleared his throat.
Meade raised his hands in mock surrender. “If I may
repeat myself, Mrs. McCarter, what you did was incredibly foolhardy.” Then a
small smile wrinkled the corner of his mouth. “But I don’t know anyone who’s
ever done anything as brave as what you and Mr. Zelinski did.” He tipped his
ball cap at her, and started to leave. Then he added, “But that won’t stop you
from getting a speeding ticket when you get that replacement Camaro running
over the speed limit.”
They all laughed.
Rhetta had another question. “Sergeant Meade, I
never did find out something. What the heck is ‘enhanced 9-1-1’?”
“When an area has enhanced 9-1-1, the emergency
operations center has an immediate computer coordinated map of the location
that’s tied to the phone number of the caller. In areas without it, like
Bollinger County, all the operator has is the caller ID. The 9-1-1 system is
expensive to purchase and maintain. Counties with a small population have a
tough time getting it, and usually rely on grants from the phone companies to
acquire one.”
“Enhanced 9-1-1 should be available for everyone,”
Rhetta said. “It’s a safety issue.”
Randolph put his arm around Rhetta’s shoulder. “Now
you have a new cause to pursue, and can quit chasing terrorists.” She thought
she just might work on that.
*
* *
Three
weeks later, Woody showed up for work with metal crutches.
When she spotted him, their secretary, LuEllen,
jumped from her swivel chair at the front desk and ran to the door. She held it
for him as he wobbled in, balancing his briefcase under one arm.
“For heaven’s sake, Woody, are you supposed to be
back to work already?” Then she relieved him of the briefcase and followed him
to his desk, scolding him all the way.
Woody carefully set the crutches in the corner
before lowering himself into his oversized chair. He gazed around his desktop,
and arranged the pens, the phone, the blotter. He swiveled around to LuEllen
and to Rhetta, who’d sidled up.
Rhetta grinned. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”
“It’s time to get back to work. Just your claims
alone would keep me busy.”
Rhetta had already filed the insurance claim on
Cami. She’d accompanied Ricky to inspect the replacement, a dirt-encrusted 1981
Z28 which Ricky gleefully called a “barn find.” The car spent the last twenty-five
years forgotten and abandoned in a farmer’s barn. The old man who owned the
property and to whom Ricky had paid for the car, had died of a heart attack the
day before Rhetta and Ricky had originally planned to pick it up. It took a
while to get the title transferred. Two days ago, the title finally came in the
mail. Rhetta had ridden along to help Ricky load the car on to the car hauler
and take it to Ricky’s shop.
Rhetta pondered what she’d call her new ride. They’d
already compiled a long list of parts to order.
*
* *
Once
settled in behind his desk, Woody booted up his computer. As was his newsaholic
habit, he opened the local affiliate television station’s streaming news.
LuEllen returned to her desk and was out of earshot.
While waiting for his computer to load, Woody said to Rhetta, “Wexler said
there wouldn’t be anything about what happened on the news.”
Agent Wexler had sworn everyone involved to secrecy
for the sake of national security. Rhetta hadn’t yet told LuEllen about what
had happened to Woody’s leg, nor exactly what had caused Cami to burn up.
Woody had suffered a bout of depression combined
with his PTSD after the shootout. Rhetta called him daily. Jenn reported Woody
was recuperating, and nearly back to his old self. Rhetta understood why he’d
returned to work as soon as he could. He needed to get busy and get his mind
off what happened. Rhetta had taken him to lunch a few times while he was out
on sick leave. His leg was healing nicely, and now, she was relieved that his
spirit was healing too.
“Wexler told me the terrorist cell was cleaned out,”
Rhetta said, patting Woody’s arm. “It’s all over. There won’t be an attack.”
Woody shrugged and gazed at the newscast.
Rhetta said, “He also assured me the book was
closed, the terrorists were rounded up, and there would be no charges filed
against us, since our shooting them was in self-defense. The entire thing has
to be kept ultra-secret and nothing would appear in any news media. In fact,
according to the news, Cami setting the hay bales on fire was the biggest thing
that happened in Scott County that night.”
“I didn’t want it to be on the news,” Woody said.
“It’d scare customers off.” He couldn’t conceal his smile behind the whiskers.
“What about the power failures? How did they cover that?”
“Inland Electric called it a ‘perfect storm,’ and
said it all started with lightning striking the substations in Marble Hill,
which caused an overload in Cape County. In Perry County, they said a bird’s
nest caught fire in that substation, causing it to crash.”
“Must’ve been a bird the size of Delaware.”
Rhetta smiled. Woody’s sense of humor was also
returning.
“I also found out from Billy Dan that there are
tripping stations on the nationwide power grid that would prevent a complete
cascading power failure that would take out the entire grid at one time.”
She continued after adjusting her chair, sitting,
and turning to face Woody. “Wexler also said that the cell here was taking out
our power stations as part of a national plot to see what would happen. He
confirmed that every transformer had holes shot at points that matched the
markings on the schematic. Wexler also admitted that, although the FBI knew who
the members of the cell were, they hadn’t discovered their plan. There had been
absolutely no chatter.”
“Did Wexler ever find out where the money from Al-Serafi’s
refi went?”
“When I asked him if Mahata escaped with it, he only
shrugged. He implied that the FBI had been unable to track down Al-Serafi’s
wife to question her. She and the money are probably holed up in a country
friendly to terrorists.”
“Guess she never did get to sunbathe at Lake of the
Ozarks,” Woody said. Swiveling around to Rhetta, he asked, “How’s Randolph?”
“He’s back to painting up a storm and planning his
one-man show coming up at the gallery. He’s locked himself in his studio in a
painting frenzy. He wants plenty ready for the show.” Grabbing a brochure off
her desk, she waved it at Woody. “In fact, he’s doing so well he ordered a
brand-new, three-quarter-ton Artmobile. Otherwise known as a Ford.”
Woody chuckled, then turned serious. “Not much left
of the first Artmobile, was there?”
Rhetta added quietly, “He’s quit drinking
altogether.” Woody nodded without speaking.
Rhetta hadn’t managed to quit smoking yet, but was
working on it. She was also trying to locate her father. It was impossible to
find any of his records. The only thing she could find was his birth record. So
far, she was unable to find anything else. Even the military records, so far,
were a dead end.
The buzzing intercom interrupted Rhetta’s thoughts.
“Miss Ricky Lane is on line two for you,” LuEllen said.
Rhetta punched the blinking light “Hey, what’s up
girlfriend? Do we need more parts?” Rhetta had already written Ricky a
substantial check for the first batch of aftermarket parts to restore the Z28.
The new LS1 engine was already on a truck making its way from Ohio.
She pulled open the drawer in search of her
checkbook. “How much do I owe you?” She didn’t want Ricky to shoulder a large
parts bill.
“No, no, that’s not it. We’re good on the parts.”
Ricky, lowering her voice as though not wanting anyone to overhear, asked, “Do
you remember Malcom Griffith?”
“Sure. He was the real estate developer who scammed
his business partner several years back, then took off with millions in escrow
funds.”
“Did you know that the business partner Griffith
scammed was Jeremy’s father?”
“Jeremy, as in your new love interest?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I just found Malcom Griffith’s wallet wedged into
the frame of your Z28.”
The
End
Sharon’s mystery series featuring mortgage banker
Rhetta McCarter and her ’79 Camaro hits close to home. Sharon is a branch
manager for a mortgage office of a Missouri bank. She also owns the original
Cami, a restored ’79 Camaro like Rhetta’s.
Sharon
’s
hobbies include painting, photography, flower gardening, and restoring muscle
cars with her son, Jeff.
She is a member of the Mystery Writers of America,
Sisters in Crime, the Southeast Missouri Writers’ Guild, and the Missouri
Writers’ Guild.
Sharon also spent 30 years as an Appaloosa Horse
Club judge, where she was privileged to judge all over the US, Canada, Mexico
and Europe.
She lives on the family compound near Marble Hill, Missouri, with her husband, Bill, next door to her son, Jeff, his wife,
Wendy, and her grandson, Dylan, plus two dogs, one cat, and assorted second
generation Camaros.
Watch for Rhetta McCarter and the second book in the
series,
KILLERFIND
, coming soon.