A Dirty Shame Page 19

  “You must be Sheriff Lawson,” Greg Vance said. “My wife called and told me you were looking to talk to me.”

  “This is Doctor Graves,” Jack said. “She’s the coroner for King George County.”

  “Good to meet you,” Greg said. He pulled out a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth. “I’m trying to quit smoking. Some days are easier than others. Come on in to my office and we can get comfortable. Would you like any coffee? I’ve already got a pot made.”

  “I would,” I said, before Jack could decline for the both of us.

  “Well, come on in and get out of the damp. I think it’s supposed to rain again.”

  He turned around and headed back inside and I raised my eyebrows at Jack. Greg Vance was not what I’d expected. He was about Jack’s size, and it was obvious he kept himself in good shape by the look of his bulging arms and flat stomach. He looked like the All-American male, down to the blond hair and blue eyes. He wore charcoal slacks and a light blue polo that had the dealership logo over the heart.

  We went across the showroom, and I eyed a sexy silver sports car that made me think disloyal thoughts towards the Suburban. Greg’s office was in the far back corner, and it had been professionally decorated in shades of blue and black to match the rest of the dealership. Jack and I sat in the two chairs across from his desk, and I waited as he poured my coffee.

  “How do you like it?” he asked.

  “Just black, please.” He handed it to me and I told him thank you before he went around to the other side of the desk.

  “What can I do for you folks? You look like a lady who’d know how to handle a sports car. I’ve got one out on the floor that drives like a dream. A six-speed convertible that hugs every curve in the road.”

  “Will it hold a dead body?” I asked.

  He looked a little nonplussed by the comment, but he rallied quickly. “Only if you folded it in half. There’s not much trunk space.”

  “We’d just like to ask you a few questions regarding our investigation into the deaths of Daniel Oglesby and George Murphy. I’m sure your father spoke to you already.”

  Greg rubbed his hand across his jaw and sighed. “Yeah, I should probably apologize for him. My father and I don’t always see eye to eye about everything, but he’s not a killer. He’s very—stringent about his beliefs. I think it’s the generation. He’s always right and refuses to see that anyone else might be right instead, or that the world has evolved.”

  “Families can be difficult when your beliefs are different,” I said. “What about your brother?”

  “Will?” Greg asked. “He’s always kind of been the chosen one because of his profession, but he and Dad don’t talk much. They rub each other the wrong way, and Dad disapproved of his divorce. They had a big fight about it when Will said he was leaving Cynthia. Mostly Will stays to himself and keeps focused on work.”

  I could see the worry in Greg’s eyes, as if there was something else going on with his brother that he didn’t want to mention, but I didn’t press it.

  “I’d like you to look at a couple of photographs for me,” Jack said. “They’re not going to be pretty, just to warn you.”

  I watched as Greg mentally prepared himself, and Jack handed him the first photograph of Julie Lawrence—the one of how she’d been found in the parking lot. Greg winced as he looked at her, and his hand shook a little as he put the photo down on his desk.

  “Just look at her face,” Jack said. “Try not to think about the rest of it.”

  “Jesus,” Greg said. “How could anyone not think about the rest of it? Look at her.”

  “Do you recognize her?” Jack pressed. “Her name is Julie Lawrence.”

  “No—I’m sorry—No. I’ve never seen her before.” Greg pushed the photograph back and seemed to sigh in relief when Jack put it back in the folder.

  “What about this one? Do you recognize him?”

  I recognized the mug shot from Julie Lawrence’s case file. Ronnie Campbell had been in too many pieces to bother with an identification photograph at the scene of his meth trailer blown to smithereens, so the mug shot was all we had.

  Greg looked at this one more closely, taking it in his hands and holding it right in front of his face. “He kind of looks familiar, but I can’t place it. Should I know him?”

  “He worked in your auto shop about ten years ago, here at this dealership,” Jack said. “His name is Ronnie Campbell.”

  I sat up straighter in my chair but didn’t say anything. Another one of the pieces of the puzzle had slid nicely into place.

  “I’ve had a lot of employees over the last ten years, Sheriff Lawson. He’s familiar. I can tell you that much. But I can’t really remember anything else. You’d do better to talk to my head mechanic. His name is Booth Wilkins, and he’s been at this location since I opened the doors fifteen years ago. Is he who you suspect for these murders?”

  “No, Ronnie Campbell died a few months ago,” Jack said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Vance.”

  “No problem. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  Jack and I walked quickly back to the cruiser since a light mist had started to fall.

  “So what did you think of the younger Vance?” Jack asked, turning on the heater.

  “I would’ve bought a car from him.”

  “Yeah,” Jack sighed. “Me too.” He looked at his watch. “Nine o’clock. Too late to talk to Booth Wilkins. Let’s go back home. I’ve got a late night ahead of me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I woke up as soon as I felt Jack leave the bed. “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice husky with sleep.

  “I can’t turn off my mind,” he whispered. “I need to work. Try to go back to sleep.”

  I laughed and lifted my head to look at the clock. It was barely after midnight. “Yeah, that’s going to happen. I’ll come down with you. And I’ll even make the coffee.”

  Jack winced as he pulled on a pair of old sweatpants and a white t-shirt. “There’s no need to make threats. I’ll make the coffee. But you should probably put some clothes on so we don’t get distracted on the stairs again.”

  The sheet was draped down to my waist, and he stopped what he was doing to skim over my body with that hot stare.

  “Stairs are dangerous places,” I said, stretching, just because I loved the idea that I could tempt him. I’d never been that kind of woman. But I was with him because he loved me.

  “I’m going now,” he said, though he didn’t move from his spot. “And you’re going to put on clothes. Though maybe not too many because you never know when I might become inspired.” And then he ran out the door and downstairs.

  I laughed and shuffled into the bathroom so I could wash my face and wake up a little. An odd thing to say, considering seventy-two hours before, I’d been able to do nothing but stay awake.

  I borrowed Jack’s old Giants jersey, and I pulled my hair back in a ponytail. The smell of coffee greeted me as I made my way down the stairs and into his office. He stood in front of his white boards that seemed to be growing more and more crowded. My coffee cup sat on the end table by the couch, so I grabbed it and took a seat.

  “What’s going on, Jack? You think of something else?”

  “The Vances are bothering me. I called Carver and told him to start sending me everything he had specifically on William Vance. His alibi is the shakiest for the Daniel Oglesby’s murder. He didn’t have a wife or lover at home to confirm he’d been in bed all night. He was reported to be the doctor on call at the hospital during the time of George’s murder, but it would be easy enough to slip out of the hospital if he wanted to. He spent another night alone in bed on Saturday night and slept late Sunday morning when Doc Randall was shot, so yeah—I’m awfully curious about William Vance.”

  I noticed then that Jack’s laptop was open and different folders were popping up as they downloaded from Carver’s computer at the B&B.

  “Let’s take out the possibili
ty that Daniel Oglesby was killed because he was gay. That there was no hate crime involved. What are we left with?”

  “He saw something he shouldn’t have,” I said automatically.

  “Bingo.” Jack paced in front of his board and took down everything that had to do with the Aryan Nation, and all those we thought could be possible members. “So Daniel Oglesby jogs like clockwork every morning and happens to see the white Cadillac transferring whatever it was they were transferring into the green hatchback Miss Pilcher told us about. What are our connections?”

  He tacked up Julie Lawrence’s crime scene photo and Ronnie Campbell’s mug shot. “Julie is the only one killed exactly the same way, and Ronnie was connected through her. No one else has the brand. So what was in that car?”

  “Meth or money,” I said, my eyes widening as the pieces all fell into place. “Holy shit, George was running drugs?”

  “It’s the perfect setup. Whoever’s cooking it puts the finished product in a broken down car. Someone picks up the product—in this case the white Cadillac—and then George comes along and collects the money and the car when he tows it back to his garage.”

  “But why is George dead?” I asked, confused.

  “Because George wasn’t important. He wasn’t the one in charge, even though the garage was his. You said when you talked to him that morning that he kept saying they, as if he wasn’t a part of it. But he also told you they’d use you until they lost interest. Once you’re a member of the organization, it’s hard to get out.”

  “George was a member of the Aryan Nation. He had the mark to prove it.” I looked at the photograph I’d found in George’s body. “The men in this photograph. Maybe that’s what he was trying to tell us. Maybe they’re all members.”

  “Or former members, which means they’re in just as much danger as George was. No wonder Mayor Glass went out of town.”

  “So George joined up, but then decided it wasn’t for him, so he tried to get out. But by then it was too late. I never thought about it before, but how did George get the start up money for that garage?”

  “Excellent question, my dear Watson. Always follow the money.” Jack tapped a few keys on his computer and what looked like a scanned document popped up. “Remind me to give Carver a raise,” he said.

  “You could probably just pay him in beer.”

  “You read people well, love. Here it is.” He turned the screen so I could read.

  “A small business loan was granted to George Murphy twelve years ago. He would have been what, twenty?” I asked. “No bank in their right mind would loan that much money to a twenty-year old.”

  “Keep reading,” Jack said.

  “Blah, blah, blah, a bunch of boring legal speak I don’t understand,” I said, reading down the page. “Signed on this day, March 11th, by United Trust bank president, Frank Greenbaum.” And then I remembered Lewis telling us about the false bank account under Frank’s name, and I looked once more at the photograph I’d found inside George. “Okay. That makes more sense now.”

  “At least we don’t have to be worried about Dickie being involved,” Jack said.

  This was true. The last case Jack had been working on, Dickie had made a very convincing suspect. Dickie was the bank president at First National here in Bloody Mary, and United Trust was over in King George Proper.

  “Who’s president at United Trust now?” I asked.

  “I can find out.” He went to the bank website and the picture of a man I didn’t recognize showed up in the top right corner. “Carl Fortenberry. I don’t know him,” Jack said. “You?”

  “Nope, never seen him before.”

  “We’ll check him out anyway just in case. I want to go back to Oglesby’s body,” Jack said. “The needle mark from the syringe they used to drug him. You said there was bruising around the entry point.”

  “Whoever gave him the shot wasn’t gentle about it. But I can see how it could happen like that. You’re trying to get it done quickly and your adrenaline is pumping. So your strength is more than you thought it was.”

  I pulled out the copy of the autopsy file I’d made for Jack and looked at the tissue photograph I’d made as well as the x-ray. “It was a big needle,” I said. “You could see where it entered into the muscle on the x-ray. “I didn’t even notice it on the external exam because all of the damage to the body, but the x-rays picked it up. Once I knew what I was looking for, I could see the bruised tissue under my scope.”

  “Stand up,” Jack said. “I’m about Oglesby’s height, right?”

  “He had a half an inch on you.”

  “So close enough. Where was the needle mark?” He turned around so his back was to me.

  “Right shoulder, almost where it meets the neck and about four inches down.” I pressed down on the spot so he could feel the area. “Location indicates the person was right-handed.”

  “So pretend you’re about to stab me with a needle in that exact spot.”

  “Ooh, I’ve always wanted to stab you with a needle. You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Jack.”

  “You weren’t complaining two hours ago.”

  I rolled my eyes and lifted my arm above my head, preparing to strike the blow. When my fist came down, it impacted higher than the target I was shooting for. A couple of inches higher. And I could finally see what Jack was getting at.

  “I’m too tall,” I said. “Whoever gave the injection to Daniel Oglesby was shorter than I am.”

  “How much shorter?”

  “I’m a little over 5’7”. So I’m thinking about 5’4” at the tallest.”

  “Who at the garage would fit that description?”

  “Holy shit. Wormy Mueller.”

  “I got the lab results back on the bandana we found at Daniel Oglesby’s crime scene.”

  “And?”

  “It’s a match for oil and several other things found in a garage. More importantly, it’s an exact match for the kind of oil George uses in his garage.”

  “The only problem with that is Wormy might have delivered the initial injection, but he’s too small to move the body. And he’s too small to have been able to kill Oglesby by himself and chain him to that tree. He was also at the station when George was killed, so you don’t have him for murder there.”

  “No, but a guy like Wormy isn’t the muscle. He just follows instructions. And he could have called anyone from the garage to let them know when George left. We need to talk to Wormy.”

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

  “The garage opens at seven,” Jack said. “We’ll catch him then.”

  “You know the one problem I have with all of this?”

  “Probably the same problem I have. Doc Randall. He doesn’t fit. And we don’t have a body or a murder weapon.”

  “You said follow the money,” I reminded him. “Who has that kind of money to throw around?”

  “All of the Vances. But I can’t find anything odd in their accounts. No incoming or outgoing payments of large sums of money. Carver is looking into hidden accounts to see if the money could be coming from overseas. And both William and Greg are big enough to do what’s needed. Except Greg’s wife alibied him for the night in question. There’s nothing more we can do tonight until we get a chance to talk to Wormy and we see what Carver was able to dig out.”

  “Nothing more we can do?” I said wide-eyed. “I’ve heard a man slows down in his thirties, but I never thought it would happen to you.”

  He arched a brow, the sensuous curve of his mouth quirking slightly. “Are you trying to seduce me, Doctor Graves?”

  “Because that’s been so hard up till now?”

  “I’m glad to see you got your smart mouth back. I was starting to miss it.”

  I sighed, putting my hands on my hips. “I didn’t realize you were going to be all philosophical tonight. Here I am trying to get some action, and you just stand there. I think your reputation was overblown for all those years. The Jac
k Lawson I used to know wouldn’t have ever let me get dressed in the first place.”

  “I’m not being philosophical. I’m being nostalgic.” The half-smile turned full blown, and I was taken aback by how gorgeous he was. I scooted back a step when he stepped forward, and his smile got even bigger.

  “Worried now, are you? You’ve got to be able to put your money where your mouth is, sugar. That’s why you’re so lousy at poker.”

  “Hey, if I want to be ridiculed I can go stay with dozens of other people.” I turned around and headed for the stairs, and I laughed when he caught me before I could even leave the room.

  “I hope you had your Wheaties this morning,” he said. “If you’re going to call my sexual prowess into question then I’ve got a hell of a lot to prove in a short amount of time.”

  “Maybe we could start in an actual bed this time. I don’t mean to complain, but my knees and back can only do walls and stairs twice in a day. We’ve already reached our limit.”

  Before I knew if, the Giants jersey was pushed above my breasts and we were rolling around on the floor of the office, both of us laughing.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, biting the lobe of my ear and sending shivers down my spine. “I’ll be on bottom this time. I care about your health and safety.”

  “Oh, well then,” I panted. And then I moaned because he was sliding deep inside of me and all I could do was hold on for the ride.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jack’s phone rang a few minutes before six, and I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes when he flipped on the light. We hadn’t been asleep more than twenty minutes.

  “Sheriff Lawson?” Jack said by way of answering the phone.

  I was still struggling to adjust my eyes to the light when Jack hung up and threw off the covers.

  “What’s happened?” I asked, following the gesture. It took me about thirty seconds to realize that all my clothes were still in the other room. Jack hadn’t been kidding about proving his point. My legs felt like Jello.

  “That was dispatch. A 911 was just called in reporting a fire. George’s shop is up in flames.”