The Right Call (17 page)

“I’m sorry, what did you say, dear?”

“I was just wondering,” Antonio said, “where you put those delicious sugar cookies you baked this afternoon.”

“I hid them.” Tessa shot him an impish grin. “They’re for my Bible-study group tomorrow, and it was the only way to make sure there would be some left for the ladies.”

“Aw, come on, love. I’m not that bad.”

“Oh yes you are … actually, I did save you a bedtime snack.” She dropped the curtain and walked over to the oven and opened it.

Antonio laughed. “I never thought to look in there.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.” She reached in the cold oven and took out a small plate covered with plastic wrap, then poured a glass of milk and set both on the table in front of him.

Antonio kissed her cheek. “You’re amazing. So what were you fixated on over there?”

“I was just praying for the Jessups. And for Ethan. It’s such a hard week for them.”

“I’ll say.”

“Ethan just left, but Brill’s still not back. Something must be going on.”

Antonio glanced up at the clock. “Well, the news will be on in a few minutes. Maybe the cops cracked the case. It’d sure be nice if they got the shooter before the two funerals tomorrow. It must be just awful for the parents to bury their daughters and not even know who killed them.”

“I’m not sure it would be any easier if they knew who did it. But there can’t be any closure until they get the shooter.”

“You know”—Antonio took a bite of cookie—“we get irritated with Gus for blaming Brill for everything, but it really is hard to fathom what’s happened in this town since she took over. I’m not sure Chief Hennessey would’ve had the experience to tackle it, much less solve it.”

“The Lord knew exactly who we needed to lead,” Tessa said. “All those years she worked vice on the Memphis force prepared her perfectly for it.”

“I can’t argue with that. But I sure don’t like the fact that we’re starting to have crime like the big city.”

Brill scanned the ballistics report and handed it back to Trent.

“We can’t be more certain than a hundred percent,” she said. “We’ve got our murder weapon. Now if we could just figure out whose fingerprints are on it.”

“Well, like you said, Chief, we need to start digging into Davison’s and Langley’s personal lives. Somebody out there wanted them both dead. We need to find the connection.”

Brill looked out the window into the dark night. “I admit I’m baffled at the moment. We’ve got two young men who have never been in trouble and whose phone records and computer histories reveal them to be honest, hardworking college students.”

“Their bank statements and credit cards, too,” Trent said. “At least from what Beau Jack’s pulled together so far. I just don’t see any indication that either of them was involved in using or dealing drugs—or anything that looks suspicious. Nothing out of the ordinary about their lifestyles, except for Davison’s having a Hummer. And we know his dad bought it for him. I guess we need to revisit their friends and see where that takes us.”

Brill willed away a yawn. “We’d better get started before the holiday weekend bogs down our efforts.”

Chapter 20

Ethan
walked into the office of Langley Concrete Company at 5:40 a.m. and spotted Tonya Mason standing at the built-in counter, pouring a cup of coffee.

“It’s just me,” he said. “Coffee smells great.”

“You timed that just right,” Tonya said. “You like cream and sugar, right?”

“Yes, thanks.” Ethan walked over and stood next to her. “You come in this early
every
day?”

“Yep, same as you.” She handed him an insulated cup filled with coffee. “But only because I can take off early. This body is getting too old to put in twelve-hour days. Cindy comes in at one and works till six. I don’t think you’ve met her yet. Listen, before I forget, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about your cousin.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“Ralph, bless his stubborn heart, doesn’t say much about it. But I know it’s eating at him.”

Good,
Ethan thought.

The door opened, and Stedman shuffled in, his eyelids heavy.

“Morning,” he said. “Caffeine. I need caffeine.”

Tonya laughed. “You aren’t worth diddly-squat till you’ve got a shot of coffee in your veins.”

Stedman came up behind her and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Ma.”

Tonya poured him a cup of coffee. “All right. That’s all the pampering you two are getting from me. I’ve got work to do, and Ralph will be expecting you at the site.”

Stedman patted Ethan on the back. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine, if I don’t think too hard about it.”

“I heard on the news that Drew’s funeral is Saturday.”

“Yeah. I guess the services for the two girls that got killed are today. And Tal’s is tomorrow.”

The door opened and closed. “Morning all. Did you know the cops found the gun used in the shootings?”

Ethan turned around and saw one of the crew workers with a newspaper under his arm. “Was it in the
Gazette?”

“Front page.”

“Can I see that?” Ethan asked.

“Sure.”

Ethan took the newspaper, and the headline jumped off the page. He quickly scanned the article.

Police Recover Gun Used in Deadly Shooting Sprees

Sophie Trace Police Chief Brill Jessup told reporters late last night that her department has recovered the weapon used in two separate shootings that claimed four victims, three Stanton College students and an eighth grader at Sophie Trace Middle School.

Chief Jessup would not comment further, citing the ongoing investigation, other than to say that the weapon, a Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol, was surrendered to police by an anonymous source and that ballistics has verified it is the same gun that took the life of Tal Davison (21), Skyler Roberts (20), Natalie Benchfield (13), and Drew Langley (21).

A source inside the police department said that fingerprints were found on the gun but police have made no arrests in the case.

Sheriff Sam Parker was unavailable for comment, but a source in his department said that Sheriff Parker and Police Chief Jessup believe that the deaths of Davison and Langley, who were college roommates, were more than coincidence, and an investigation is under way to find a connection in the shooting deaths, which occurred several days apart and at different locations.

A memorial service for each of the victims is being held this week (see times and locations in Section B, page 2).

Ethan handed the newspaper back to the worker and finally remembered his name. “Thanks, Judd. I knew about the gun last night but didn’t know the information had been released to the press.”

“So what’s the deal?” Stedman said. “What kind of gun was it?”

“A Smith and Wesson pistol of some kind.” Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know much about guns.”

“It was a semiautomatic,” Judd said. “The shooter knew what he was doing. I hope they get the sucker and hang him out to dry.”

“They ought to just ban those kinds of guns altogether,” Tonya said.

Stedman’s eyebrows came together and ridges formed on his forehead.

“What’s the matter?” Ethan said. “You’re not in favor of banning certain guns?”

“That’s an issue all by itself. I just feel bad about your cousin getting shot. Must be hard for you to hear all this.”

“Yeah, kind of,” Ethan said. “I’m going to drive over to Misty Meadows. See you there?”

“I’m right behind you.”

At noon straight up, Stedman walked into Rambo’s Bar and Grill and saw Grant Wolski sitting in a booth by himself, eating a big sandwich.

He slid into the booth across from Grant. “I figured you’d be here. We need to talk.”

“Are you crazy?” Grant said. “I told you to stay away from me.”

“Did you hear the cops have the gun that was used in the shootings?”

“So what?” Grant said.

“It’s the same kind of gun you showed me.”

“I got news for you. There’re a lot of them out there.”

Stedman lowered his voice. “Don’t mess with me, Grant. You handed me two Smith and Wesson pistols and said to choose. Someone used the
other
one to kill those four people, right?”

“What
is
it about ‘it’s not your concern’ that you don’t understand?” Grant looked around the room. “I let you off the hook for the money and told you to stay away from me. Now get out of here. I mean it.”

Stedman leaned forward on his elbows. “Look, man, four people have been killed, and one of them is a thirteen-year-old. Are more people going to die? Because I don’t want this on my conscience.”

“Don’t make this your problem.”

“I can’t just pretend I don’t know anything.”

“You
don’t
know anything.”

“Then why don’t you fill me in? Because I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Oh, so
now
you’ve got a bad feeling?” Grant slid his sandwich aside and pushed forward with his elbows until his face was in front of Stedman’s. “Funny … you didn’t have a bad feeling when you agreed to kill a man to pay a lousy poker debt.”

“We both know what I agreed to do. And I have to live with it the rest of my life. Why don’t you tell me what
you
did?”

“You have no idea what you’re sticking your nose into.”

“So why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Go back to work, Stedman. Forget we had this conversation.” Grant moved his gaze around the room. “You don’t want to be seen here with me.”

“Why—did
you
do it?” Stedman was kidding, and he was surprised to see Grant’s face turn a deep shade of pink. His mind raced in reverse, and suddenly he was hot all over.

“It was
you,
wasn’t it?” he whispered. “You had the other gun. You’re the one who wanted to get back at Win Davison. You killed his son yourself.”

“You just won’t leave it alone, will you?”

Stedman felt as if his heart fell into a heap. How could he have been so stupid? “Now I get it.… You made sure I left my fingerprints on both guns so you could set me up. You never intended for me to kill Davison at all. You just wanted to frame me for it.”

“Keep your voice down. Just back off, and the cops will never know whose prints they are. Open your mouth to anyone—and I mean
anyone
—about any of this, and you’re going down for the shootings. It’s out of my hands. Now beat it.”

Brill sat between Trent and Sam Parker in the reserved seating at the Sophie Trace Civic Center and listened to the pastor from First United Methodist Church attempt to comfort Natalie Benchfield’s parents. The only distinguishable sound besides his voice echoing in the huge old building was sniffling. There were no empty seats—and probably no dry eyes, not even Sam Parker’s.

What was it about a child’s death that seemed to render everyone helpless? A mountain of grief … and nowhere to hide from it.

She wondered if Natalie’s parents were riddled with guilt because they didn’t call and check on their daughter after she left home mad and told them she was going to her grandmother’s house. Would they be forever saddled with the “I hate you’s” that Natalie shouted in anger but didn’t live long enough to take back?

Brill’s mind wandered back to when Vanessa was thirteen and going through a sassy, rebellious stage. How grateful she was that no harm had come to her daughter. Could there be anything more frightening to a parent than having a child out of control? Or more gut-wrenching that having a child’s life cut short?

Judging from the tone of the memorial service, it seemed as if the Benchfields were not religious people. Without the assurance that they would see Natalie again in eternity, how did they summon the courage to say good-bye?

Brill decided not to think about it and turned her thoughts to the case—and finding the killer. All they had was a stolen red Ford F-150, a stolen Smith & Wesson semiautomatic pistol, and Hans Bowerly’s glimpse of a young man with a dark beard and mustache. Now that the information had been released to the media, maybe someone would come forward with another piece of the puzzle.