The middle-aged officer, married, if you could believe the wedding band on her left hand, advised her, “Wait over there, please,” and pointed her chubby index finger to a row of wood chairs. Rhetta found a seat.
After ten minutes of scanning months-old magazines and the Missouri State Highway Patrol newsletters, a side door opened, and a tall, trim officer with dark hair clipped close to his head strolled her way.
The officer, mid-thirties Rhetta estimated, politely asked her name, introduced himself, then invited her to accompany him to his office. His black-lettered, silver badge bore the inscription, Sergeant F. Phillips. She followed Phillips past the cage containing the duty officer. They walked in silence down a narrow hallway and into his cramped office.
Phillips motioned her to take a seat in one of two chairs squeezed in front of his desk. When she sat, her knees thumped the front. She winced.
Phillips squeezed in behind the desk and deposited himself in the chair, then twisted around to face her. “I apologize for the small space, Mrs. McCarter. The state is utilizing every spare inch of this building. I’m told this used to be a closet.” He smiled ruefully as he waved around his cramped quarters.
Behind him, plaques, awards, degrees, and various items evidencing many professional accomplishments and service organization participation covered the entire wall space above the chair.
“What can I do for you?” Phillips was all business.
“I’d like to pick up my husband’s personal items.”
Phillips shuffled through several file folders in an upright metal rack and selected one. He opened it and scanned a list before handing it to her. “Certainly. I’ll call the duty officer to bring them up. However, we can’t release the liquor bottle. That’s evidence.”
Deciding not to discuss the Jim Beam bottle, at least for now, she simply nodded. Randolph would have his time in court. Her husband was in no position to investigate the liquor bottle. She’d have to do it for him.
Phillips dialed a number. He requested Randolph’s personal items be brought to the office.
“How is the judge doing? I knew Judge McCarter when he was still on the bench.” He shook his head, almost sadly, Rhetta thought.
I don’t need your sympathy. Randolph didn’t do anything wrong.
“He had surgery last night and is stable. His prognosis is good.” She held her chin up and forced herself to look past the officer. She couldn’t meet his gaze. Being tired and stressed was a recipe for tears, and she was determined not to well up.
Further conversation ended with a knock on the office door. Another young male officer entered carrying a large white envelope secured with a string clasp. He placed the envelope on the desk.
Phillips unwound the string and opened the envelope. He scanned his notes before handing it to Rhetta. Along with the envelope, he handed her a lined sheet of paper
“Please sign this receipt that you’ve received Judge McCarter’s personal items.”
Rhetta peered inside the envelope. She reached in and fingered the contents—a pair of work gloves, the truck’s registration and insurance papers, a notepad, several pens, and a tube of lip balm.
Missing was the manila envelope containing the schematic and the photo Woody had printed of the substation transformer.
Rhetta cleared her throat. “Is this all?”
“Yes, ma’am. As I said, the liquor bottle was confiscated.”
“I’m looking for a manila envelope with documents in it.”
“There was nothing else in the vehicle, Mrs. McCarter. I checked the contents against the list from the site that the sergeant included in the report.” He turned the page so that she could read it.
She scanned the list signed by Sergeant Quentin Meade. His list matched the contents she held in her hands.
Clutching the envelope and shaking inside, she thanked Phillips and left.
The schematic was the key to Randolph’s accident. Someone stole it from the car, she was sure of that.
Now she was positive that someone deliberately forced Randolph off the bridge.
* * *
A half hour later, with Cami’s aftermarket sunroof open to the bright sunshine and hot summer air, she raced northbound to Cape. Rhetta could almost forget the reason for her trip and bask in the satisfaction she enjoyed whenever she drove fast. A quick glance down to the white envelope wedged near her console pulled her back to reality. She felt a terrible headache coming on, like the kind she got when she ate ice cream too fast. Who had tried to force Randolph off the road?
She swerved into the right lane at the first Cape exit and arrowed straight to the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi and to the county impound lot.
Eddie sauntered out to greet her the minute she rumbled to a stop in front of the office.
“Rhetta, I’m sorry about Randolph’s accident. Is he going to be okay?” She didn’t ask Eddie how he knew about the wreck. Obviously, he would’ve been the one to get the truck and haul it in.
“He had surgery last night. The doctors say he’s going to be fine.” She scoped out the lot. “Where’s his truck? It’s here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s here. I got called out early this morning to pick it up. Are you sure you want to see it?” He removed his ball cap and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve before returning the cap to his head.
“I have to see it.” Rhetta turned off the ignition and scrambled out of the car.
“Follow me.” Eddie made for the back of the lot.
She trotted to keep up. When they stopped at the trailer holding the crushed remains of Randolph’s beloved Artmobile, the twisted wreckage spoke for itself. The truck was totaled.
She took a deep breath and walked around the trailer. Unlike the last time she poked around a vehicle in this same lot, this time she didn’t try to open any doors. She just stood staring at the driver’s side front fender at a long gash that continued to the driver’s door. Al-Serafi’s car bore one just like it.
“Eddie, do you see this?” She called him over.
“Looks like the truck grazed something.” He rubbed his palm along the damage. When he removed his hand, dark green paint particles stuck to his fingers.
“Don’t let anyone take this truck, Eddie,” Rhetta said, gazing around the lot. “Please cordon this off with tape, and don’t let anyone even touch it.”
“Okay, but you know the insurance adjuster will need to see it. What’s going on?” Eddie also panned the lot.
“Do you remember Hakim Al-Serafi’s car? I’m pretty sure it had the same kind of gash.” She pointed to the Artmobile’s fender. “I found it odd when I saw it on Al-Serafi’s car, because there was no damage to his car when he was in our office a few weeks ago. I wouldn’t have thought much about it until now I see a similar one on the Artmobile.” Rhetta gripped Eddie’s arm. “You know how Randolph is about his truck. There wasn’t a mark on it before the accident.”
Gazing around, she continued, “Is Al-Serafi’s car still here?” She wanted to see that car again, compare the scratches, and make sure she wasn’t imagining any of this.
“It’s already gone. They came and picked it up yesterday and towed it away.” Eddie removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.
“Who, our insurance company?”
“I guess. The guy who showed up had all the forms signed by Mrs. Al-Serafi. Art let them take the car.” Art was a university student in his early twenties who helped Eddie occasionally. “There was no reason to keep it here. The insurance companies do that all the time on cars that are totaled.”
“Do insurance companies usually come get the vehicles so quickly?” Rhetta fixed her gaze on the now empty flatbed trailer that had held Al-Serafi’s car.
“Sometimes.” Eddie shrugged. “We never thought anything about it. Should we have?”
Not wanting to say more, since she herself wasn’t sure what she thought, she said, “No. I guess I’m just upset.”
&
nbsp; After thanking him, Rhetta headed for her car while Eddie returned to his office. She rested against Cami’s front fender and sighed. Then she opened the door and slid into the still-cool interior. She reached across to the console, and after a quick search, pulled out a single latex glove along with her secret stash—a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Stepping out of her car, she tugged on a latex glove, then lit the cigarette. Holding it between her gloved thumb and forefinger, she took two long, satisfying drags. She inhaled deeply, allowing the smoke to fill her lungs. Her head got light from the nicotine rush. She stepped on the cigarette and ground it out with her heel, then kicked dirt over the half-smoked butt, folded the glove, and buried her stash under a notebook, a novel, and some pens.
She hated deceiving Randolph. At times like this when she was under so much stress, she had to have a nicotine fix even though she promised her husband she’d stopped smoking a long time ago. She wasn’t proud of herself for fibbing. Okay, lying. Wearing a latex glove prevented anyone, especially Randolph, from smelling the traces of smoke on her hands. Nobody knew of her secret smoking. Not even Woody.
She turned the key and while the motor rumbled, Rhetta tried to piece together everything that happened. She wasn’t imagining. She clearly remembered what the gash on Al-Serafi’s car looked like: it was identical to the one on the Artmobile.
Al-Serafi’s and Randolph’s accidents were definitely connected.
CHAPTER 16
As Rhetta pulled into the parking lot in front of her office, the front door flew open, and Woody rushed out to meet her. His cartoon-character tie flapped in the breeze he created.
“What are you doing here?” Woody reached the car as she opened the door. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital with the judge? I can take care of things here.” He held the door for her. Her arms were full with the cleaning supplies she bought three days ago, which she hadn’t unloaded. Woody wound up toting the plastic sacks with pine scented cleaner, while she carted in the bags containing paper products.
“I know you can. I’m not here to work. I want to run something past you, but I need coffee first.” She disappeared into the kitchen and put away the supplies.
Rhetta filled a ceramic mug from the large pot that was always on. The smell of fresh coffee always made her yearn for a cup. She was the first to admit she was shamelessly addicted.
Rhetta took her cup to the conference table. Woody poured a cup for himself, grabbed a handful of sugar packets, and followed her to the table.
“Randolph’s been hurt badly. But he’s going to be okay.” Rhetta stared at her coffee.
Woody opened the first of the packets and emptied it into his cup. He followed that by dumping in the rest of the packets and stirred the mixture vigorously. “Take as much time off as you need. Even though LuEllen won’t be back for a while, I can take care of the office.”
“I need your help, Woody.”
“Sure, I told you, I can take care of things here.” He raised the coffee mug to his lips.
“Not the office. I know you’re fine here.” Rhetta stirred her coffee then took a sip. It was still piping hot, requiring her to blow across the surface of the liquid. “I need to bounce something off you.”
She explained about the empty Jim Beam bottle and the pending DUI charges against Randolph, the missing manila envelope, and, most significantly, the scratches on the truck.
“Sounds to me like someone ran Randolph off the road and you think that’s what happened to Al-Serafi.” Woody tore open more sugar packets, and dumped them into his coffee. He stirred, the metal spoon clanking against the side of the cup. Normally, the noise irked her. Now, it didn’t seem important.
Rhetta set her cup down. “That they both got run off the road is significant. This isn’t a happenstance.”
Woody cleared his throat. “I hate to bring this up. I heard on the news that the judge’s blood level tested high.”
Rhetta’s stomach knotted. Great. Now it’s all over the news. “Randolph probably had a drink or two at home before he came here yesterday, but I know he didn’t have anything else to drink after noon.” She shook her head for emphasis and ran her hands through her hair.
She stood, changing the subject. She didn’t enjoy being the object of gossip. Woody, God love him, loved gossip. “I’m going to take that original schematic that we found and lock it in my safe deposit box at the main bank. I don’t want to leave it here.”
“We found?” Woody peered at her over his coffee cup. “Right,” he said, setting his cup down a little too hard. Coffee sloshed over the side.
“Okay, okay, me. I took it. Whatever. Don’t be making a federal case out of this.” She snatched her purse and began rummaging through it. “Wait, maybe we should make a federal case out of this.”
“Are you calling the FBI again?” Woody sighed as he mopped up the spill with a paper towel.
“Not yet. I need to ask Doctor Reed something.”
Snatching her phone, which she’d set on the table, she scrolled until she found his cell number.
Reed answered before the second ring.
“Kenneth, it’s Rhetta. Randolph was sleeping so I left for a bit. I’ll be back later this afternoon.”
“What can I do for you?” he answered, his words clipped, his voice terse. I probably interrupted him in the middle of something important.
She forged ahead, prevailing upon their friendship. “I need your help. Everyone is convinced that Randolph was drinking. I believed Randolph when he told me he wasn’t.” She went on to explain about the Jim Beam bottle. “Billy Dan Kercheval backs him up, too. Randolph had just left Marble Hill after he and Billy Dan met up at Merc’s. They drank nothing but coffee.”
She waited. When Kenneth didn’t say anything, she persisted. “How could Randolph’s blood test that high? Could the test have been skewed?”
When Kenneth didn’t answer for several more seconds, Rhetta thought he must be thinking about how that could have happened, too.
She heard him sigh.
“Rhetta, a skewed test is not possible. You don’t want to believe that Randolph was drunk. I’ll do what I can to heal him, but talk like this will cause you nothing but trouble. I have to go now.”
The line disconnected.
She stared at the receiver. His response wasn’t what she expected.
What’s wrong with Kenneth?
CHAPTER 17
“Kenneth doesn’t believe me.” Rhetta set her phone down, and slid the coffee cup aside. Kenneth’s tone had killed all desire for coffee.
Woody drained the last of his, then took both their cups to the kitchen. On his return, he detoured toward the office safe and withdrew the original schematic he placed there for safekeeping.
He handed it to Rhetta. “I’ll go with you. Let’s take a lunch break.”
With that, he began penning a “Be Back Soon” note and taped it to the front door. Then he held the door open for her.
* * *
After locking the schematic away in her bank safe deposit box, Rhetta drove Woody back to the office.
“I’m going to the hospital,” she said, letting him out in front. On the way, they’d swung through the drive-through at Subway. She wasn’t hungry. Earlier that morning, she’d persuaded the cantankerous vending machine on the fourth floor at the hospital to discharge a Snickers bar after feeding it double the amount the candy cost, and kicking it a time or two.
Woody, however, claimed to be on starvation’s doorstep. He clutched his sack containing two, foot-long Italian sandwiches and a gallon of sweet tea, and climbed out. Stopping midway, he turned back. “Have you heard from Doctor LaRose?”
Rhetta rested her head on the steering wheel. “I didn’t think to call him.”
“I’ll try and reach him. You should go check on your husband.”
“Thanks. Don’t scare Peter, yet somehow warn him not to talk to anyone about the schematic.”
* * *
She made it to St. Mark’s in ten minutes. After locking Cami and remembering to drop her phone into her purse, she strode to the visitors’ entrance—a set of two perpetually revolving glass doors under a brick archway containing a statue of St. Mark the Evangelist. As she stepped inside one of the doors, her iPhone began playing Woody’s ring tone. She continued revolving all the way around until she was back outside.
“I can’t get Doctor LaRose to answer,” Woody said. “I called his office and his cell.”
“Keep trying. I’m going up to check on Randolph. I’ll call you in a little while. I have to turn off my cell phone while in his room. Hospital regulations.”
She re-entered the revolving doors, glancing up in time to see Kenneth Reed talking on his cell, and striding across the lobby toward the exit to the doctors’ private parking spaces. He hadn’t seen her. She checked her watch: 1:15. She continued watching Kenneth through the all glass doors until he stopped before a parked car and pointed his remote. He climbed into a black BMW-Z4 convertible. Without lowering the top, he sped out of the lot, still talking on his cell.
Nice ride.
* * *
The door to Randolph’s room stood open a few inches. Rhetta pushed it open a foot wider and peeked in. Although it was midday, all the window blinds were tightly closed, shutting out any daylight and leaving the room in near total darkness. Randolph lay on his side, asleep. She tiptoed in, scribbled a note, and propped it on his bedside tray. You were sleeping-be back later. XXXOOO 1:20 PM. She pulled the door back to the same position she found it.
While riding the elevator down, she wondered if Woody reached Peter yet. When the elevator stopped, she rushed out, strode across the lobby and back through the revolving doors to the sidewalk outside.
Once there, she powered up her phone and dialed Woody.
“Never did reach Doctor LaRose,” Woody said by way of hello, obviously recognizing Rhetta’s cell number.