Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) (10 page)

I pointed my finger at him. “Save the shuck for the misinformed you preach to on TV, Reverend. I’m not here to be your witness. When was the last time you saw Franklin Dugan?”

I did not think Pate would answer, and when he did, the fire had gone out of his voice and his eyes seemed to dull a bit. “I saw him last week, at the taping of the show. He was here, as he always was.”

“When was the last time you were at his home?” I asked.

“I have never been to his home, Detective. Ever. Let me ask you something, if I may. Franklin was one of our biggest benefactors. Why in the world would I or anyone from this church for that matter want to see him harmed?”

“That’s a fine question, sir. It’s also one that I don’t have the answer to. But here’s an even better one; Why is it, do you think, Reverend, that the man who was personally responsible for the approval of a five million dollar loan to your church was murdered just days after you got the money? Better yet, how is it sir, that you were able to obtain that kind of credit using an all but condemned building as collateral? Is any of this starting to make sense to you, Reverend? Would you care to enlighten me as to the nature of the investigation currently being conducted by the Texas Department of Insurance regarding your former ministry in Houston?”

I thought he might try to defend himself, but he surprised me with his next statement and left me unable to speak. “My wife tells me of her past relationship with you when you were schoolmates. She’s an interesting woman, is she not? We’re having a viewing party this Saturday, here at our facility. We watch the broadcast with a select few members of the congregation to try and get a feel for how well our message will be received the next day. She’s asked me to invite you to attend. Would ten a.m. work for you, Detective?”

* * *

I left the Pate Ministry with more questions than answers. As I headed downtown for a court appearance on a previous case I spoke with both Rosencrantz and Donatti to get a feel for any information they might have gathered from their canvass of the double murder. Rosie’s voice crackled in my ear on a bad cell signal. “Found a paperboy who says he might have seen the van. He’s just a kid. Sort of a punk, little bit of smartass in him, but just a kid nonetheless. Or hell, maybe he’s completely normal and I’m just getting old. Either way, he didn’t see anything of value. No plate, no make. Says he forgot one of the houses along his route and had to double back. That’s when he saw the van. But there’s nothing there.”

“You sure?” I said.

“Positive, Jones man. On the plus side, techs found some brass.”

“No shit?”

“I shit you not, oh wise one.”

“Prints?”

“Yep. Probably a thumb from pressing a shell into the clip.”

“Alright, that’s something. Let’s get it going through NCIS.”

“Already on it.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Just spec if you want it.”

“Let’s have it,” I said.

“Alright, if you go with the theory that the banker, uh, Dugan, was the target, they probably shot Burns first then Dugan.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I talked with Becky back at the shop and she pulled everything, and I mean everything that Burns had been involved with for the past three years. It’s all basic, no bullshit kind of stuff. Hell Jonesy, he’s been on third shift protection for the last two years and there’s been nothing going on there. He hasn’t even written a traffic ticket in over thirty-six months. No one’s got any reason to be pissed at Barney, so that leaves the banker, right?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Plus,” Rosencrantz went on, “Somebody’s always pissed at their banker about something. I mean hell, just last week I was at my bank—”

“Stay with me here, Rosie.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Anyway, I know Barney was close to retirement, but he was still sharp, you know? Well, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but crime scene said his weapon was still holstered.”

I thought about this for a few seconds. Rosie’s theory could fit. So too could about ten others. “Alright, stay on the canvass and let me know what you get.”

“You got it Jonesy. Are you headed over here?”

“No, I’ve got this fucking court thing. Probably the rest of the day. Meet me tonight at the bar and we’ll cover everything there.”

“You got it, Chief.”

CHAPTER TEN

From the moment of birth, the hunger of death feeds from an army of life. Day by day it creeps ever closer, a silent, merciless hunter, its endurance without end, its clemency non-existent. It chews on the mind, feeds on the body, digests the spirit, and regurgitates the soul. It is the single, inescapable, inevitable end of everyone, and no one knew that better than Rhonda Rhodes.

Rhonda worked six days a week as a home Hospice nurse where she currently served nineteen patients, all of them in their final battle with the Big C. It was a gut-wrenching way to make a living, but Rhonda knew, just knew, down to what she called her ever-lasting soul, that what she did for a living was the reason she was ever set down on God’s green earth.

Rhonda and her ever-lasting husband, Tom, had been married for twenty-seven good years. Tom, a career fireman for the city of Indianapolis had retired only three months ago, and already the spare time was all but eating him alive. He wanted Rhonda to retire as well, but Rhonda was a Hospice nurse when they met, and, as she so often told anyone who might ask, ‘probably will be till the day I die.’

Her days tended to start late and run later, a sore spot for Tom that just didn’t want to heal. “The Big C works on its own schedule,” she always told him, just as she did now. Tom was on his hands and knees in the middle of their driveway, pulling the weeds out of the cracks in the aging cement, the sleeves of his t-shirt damp from the sweat he wiped from his forehead.

“Won’t be long and we’re gonna have to replace the drive,” he said to her without turning around. She stood just behind him in the driveway, ready to leave for work. Rhonda still wore the traditional nurse’s uniform—white skirt and blouse, white hose, and white leather shoes. It may have been a throwback from years past, but she refused to dress in those silly scrubs everyone else was wearing these days. It seemed every week one of the other nurses was going on about this new print or that new design. It was as if somewhere along the way nursing had become secondary to making a fashion statement, and a bad one at that. Rhonda would keep her whites, thank you very much. Besides, she thought the patients always seemed to appreciated her attire. More than a few had told her so over the years, and if it worked for them, bless their ever-lasting hearts, it worked for her.

“The Wimberley’s down the street had theirs done a couple of weeks ago,” Tom said. Rhonda realized she’d drifted a bit. Tom was talking about something the Wimberley’s had bought. A new car? “Got a deal from Bill. You remember Bill? From over at the three-two?”

“I’m sorry dear, what was that? The Wimberley’s bought a car from Bill?”

Tom dug at a particularly stout weed that did not want to give its ground, and when it did finally let loose, he scraped his knuckles across the jagged edge of a crack in the cement and tore the skin off the tops of three fingers. He yelled loud enough that the next door neighbor’s dog began to bark. Tom stuck the back of his fingers in his mouth, sucked off the blood, then pressed them into the side of his jeans. “No, they didn’t buy a car from Bill. He poured their new drive for them.”

“Let me see your hand,” she said.

“Are you listening to me?” Tom said. “I’m trying to tell you we need a new driveway.” His knees popped when he stood.

“Tom, you’re bleeding. Let me see.”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing. You going to work?”

“Yes. I’ve got four patients today. One of them is new, that little girl I was telling you about last night, God bless her. She’s first, and I’ll probably be there for most of the ever-lasting day, then I’ve got follow-ups on the other three. We can have left over’s or I can stop and get us something on the way home.”

Tom pulled his hand from the side of his pants and inspected his knuckles. “Either way,” he said. Then he softened his voice. “It wasn’t so bad when we were both working, but I miss you not being here with me.”

“I miss you too darling, I do. But my patients need me.” Rhonda watched the blood fill the cracks in the broken skin of Tom’s fingers and saw that her husband needed her too. “Tom, really, let me see your hand. I’ve got bandages in the trunk. Let me patch that up for you.”

“Go on to work, Rhonda,” he said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll live.”

Tom was right.

He lived.

* * *

The Sids batted the idea back and forth—this was a week ago—right before what they called ‘Go Time.’ Junior wanted to be creative. Senior wanted to be practical. Junior argued that creativity could be useful and work to their advantage. If they varied their methods enough, the fucking cops would be running around chasing their tails and probably wouldn’t put two and two together right away, if ever. It would give them all the cover they’d need.

Senior argued that creativity could, and probably would lead to mistakes and missed opportunities. “Besides,” he had said in the end, “With this many killings, you’re talking about a lot of creativity. Be better if we keep it simple. We’ve got the guns and the silencers, and the van is ready. Let’s just take our shots and be done with it.”

“Those fucking silencers are pretty cool,” Junior said. “Gotta love Indiana…legal silencers and all.”

“That might end up changing,” Senior said.

“Yeah, probably will,” Junior said. “Too late now though.”

So they settled on practical. That was a week ago. But now, they sat in the van across the street from Beans Coffee shop, Junior at the wheel, Senior at the trigger, and they watched as Rhonda Rhodes pulled to the curb and walked inside. The glare of Rhonda’s stark white nurse’s uniform was almost too bright for the scope. Senior had to squint to keep from being temporarily blinded by the whiteness of the damned thing. He followed her track into the store, but did not pull the trigger. He’d catch her on the way out. That was the plan.

Go time.

* * *

Rhonda Rhodes parked her car in front of her favorite stop off, Beans Coffee Shop, gathered her paperwork, then walked inside and took a seat at a table by the window. Beans was usually busy during the morning rush, but later in the day slowed just enough that Rhonda could sit in peace for thirty minutes or so and tend to her paperwork. The dying, bless their ever-lasting hearts, created a lot of paper.

Beans was unique not for their quaint name, but because instead of counter service, they employed actual wait staff who would come to your table and take your order. Plus, their prices were right—two bucks a cup with free refills—unlike those newer fancy-schmancy places that were popping up on every blessed corner that made you wait in line for a paper cup with different sizes, the names of which no one ever really understood. Her favorite waiter approached the table with his usual smile in place.

“Good morning, Rhonda,” the waiter said. “Get you your usual?”

 “Yes, please,” she said as she spread her paperwork across the table. “I’ve got quite the schedule today.”

“I’ll bet you do a lot of good for a lot of people,” he said, and when he did, Rhonda felt like he meant it.

“I do what I can. I’ll probably be doing this until the day I die.”

“Well, our coffee will keep you going until then, that’s for sure. Be right back.”

The waiter returned a few minutes later with a large mug full of brew and a muffin wrapped in cellophane. “Muffin’s on the house today, Rhonda. Enjoy.”

Rhonda smiled and said thank you, but the waiter remained in place. “Mind if I ask you something, Rhonda?”

“Sure.”

“How do you do it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you do, you and others like you, but to serve the dying like that, day after day, I just don’t think I could do it, you know?”

Rhonda set her pen down, took a sip of coffee and looked the young man in the eyes. “Everyone in here is dying. The difference is, some know it, and others don’t. The ones I serve, the ones with the Big C, they know it. I just help them during the final part of their lives. I’ll tell you this though, the suffering I’ve seen. My land, sometimes it’s almost too much. I pray to the lord every night that when my time comes I go quick. I sometimes think I’d rather take a bullet than to suffer through even half of what I’ve seen.”

The waiter glanced at his other tables. One of his other customers held a cup in the air, eyebrows raised. “Hey, I better get back to work. I wouldn’t worry, Rhonda. The work you’re doing, you’ll probably live forever.”

“Well, I hope you’re right,” she said.

Thirty minutes later, when Rhonda Rhodes stepped out of the coffee shop, the Sids got busy. Junior had the engine running already—nothing screamed get-away vehicle like an engine start after a gunshot, silenced or not. Senior had been lying on his back on the floor of the van, the rifle held at port arms. When Junior said “Good to go,” Senior sat up and put the business end of the barrel through the custom hole in the side of the van, just under the windows in the back. He squinted through the scope, drew a bead on his target, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. When he did, the silenced bullet smashed through Rhonda Rhodes’ sternum and chewed through her chest organs like the Big C on speed.